Changes
by UrsaWolf
Summary: Set several years after the Mage Storms, a group of people caught in a new conflict must find the solution within their own shifting identities.
1. Chapter 1: The Inheritance

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 1: The Inheritance

The young woman reined in her horse, which stopped abruptly in its path. She stood up a bit in the stirrups and looked toward the distance, shading her eyes. A minute passed, then two, while she remained there in the middle of the dirt road, frowning at the structure ahead.

Her escort shifted impatiently in his saddle as a third minute passed, then opened his mouth. The woman turned her head toward him, frowned, and then turned back. He closed his mouth shut with an audible click.

A breeze passed over the road, blowing debris into the manes of the horses. He eyed the woman, assessing her still form with one hand against her brow, the other loosely holding the reins of her stallion. It was, he noted with a mixture of envy and disapproval, a remarkably handsome and well-bred creature. Strange that a woman in such worn traveling clothes, carrying all of her possessions in just a few saddlebags, should possess such a remarkable beast. Its tail flickered back and forth for a moment then stopped. Save for the few strands of dark mane that were being tugged by the wind, it was as still and self-possessed as its mistress.

He was about to make another attempt at speaking, when the woman settled back into her saddle and rode back to him.

"This is it." It was less of a question, and more of an accusation. He cleared his throat nervously and fished around in the pocked of his vest. He removed a sheaf of rolled-up parchment and unrolled it. He cleared his throat again.

"Erm, yes." He spoke to the parchment rather than the woman. "It is stated here, quite clearly, that this is the property. The—place of residence—as well as the immediate surrounding area, including the garden within the wall, the pond, barn, and the adjoining forest…" he glanced off to the wooded land to the right, and then turned back. "This is it," he finished, looking at the woman inquisitively.

"It's a _signal tower_." The man started to speak, but was stopped by the woman's glare. "I distinctly recall every word in the letter you sent me, and I am _certain_, quite certain, that you did not mention, not once, that the 'lovely residence,' you rhapsodized over, and for which I rode hell bent for leather all the way from Haven, was a _signal tower_! And _what_, exactly," she continued over another half-hearted interruption, "am I supposed to do with a signal tower, pray tell?" She sat back in the saddle, folding her arms over her chest. She looked at him expectantly.

He opened his mouth, faltered, and tried again. "Madam, I thought you knew." She raised a brow.

"Truly," he insisted. "The signal tower has been in your family since, well, generations. Your uncle was proprietor and caretaker of the tower, and his father before him, and _his_ aunt before him, and-."

He was cut off.

"What do you mean, proprietor _and caretaker_?" The woman asked sharply. "Aren't those provided by the guard?

He blinked. "Why—only that it's traditional, here, for members of the family to maintain the signal tower. Been that way for generations! This tower's been here since Vanyel's time."

"I can see that," she muttered, eyeing the crumbling walls, the worn stones.

"Not that there's much call for the signal tower, way out here," he hurried to say. "We're not one of the major border villages, here in the north, and being so far west, bandits aren't much of a problem either. And there's a Heralds' waystation not a quarter-candlemark from town. The only call for the signal tower is for the occasional merchant and Healer and Guard activities, once in a while. And for emergencies. The Heralds don't use them much. Companions, you know." He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that he, personally, didn't know. The woman tried not to smirk.

He mentally shook his head. Well, maybe _she_ had the privilege of Collegium schooling and knew all about the Companions and such things, but a country-reared man of legal affairs didn't have those benefits. He kept his thoughts where they belonged: In the country. And she'd learn to keep her airs to herself, if she wanted to fit in here. He shrugged again, and turned back to the impatient young woman.

She had removed her lenses and was wiping them carefully with a small cloth. Settling them firmly again on her nose, she turned back toward him with an expectant air.

"Well," he said, "would you like me to show you around the property?" She shook her head, still looking at him. "Well," he said again, "the official business has been all taken care of, along with the paperwork. Will's all legal and…" He trailed off as she continued to gaze at him. He started. "Oh! Of course. Here." He handed her the key. She took it.

"Thank you," she said, and nudged her horse up the pathway at a trot.

o.o.o.o.o

"You're not _concentrating_, Akakios."

"Quiet, old man," the young apprentice snarled. "How can I finish this spell with you hovering over me like a demented old bat?"

The Blood-Adept held his peace, silently observing his pupil's work. It really was impressive. Especially considering that Akakios was actually doing _work_. Amazing, for a young delinquent who was the terror of the Merchants' School. At this rate, he'd definitely attain Adept-level skill within the space of a few years. Already, Akakios had the Adept-potential.

"So, _Master_," sneered his devoted pupil. "When do I take this Mastery test, anyway?"

He'd already attained his Mastery; he wouldn't be able to use the ley-lines and blood-magic necessary for this spell, otherwise. The mage held his tongue. Bad enough that Akakios was pressing for Master-level. If he had any idea of his true potential, he'd become quite a problem. Perhaps he should allow Akakios his first actual victim, thus diverting his attention to the easily-attained death energy and away from—

"Master! What is this?" The mage swung around at his apprentice's stunned tones. He cursed.

The boy had discovered the nodes.


	2. Chapter 2: The Two

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 2: The Two

The two stumbled into the inn together and collapsed into a chair by the fire. They gave the surrounding customers a look which communicated _Go away_ in loud tones. Then they allowed themselves to relax.

What passed for them as relaxed, anyhow.

_:Thiss ssseems like a nicce town.:_

_:That's what you said about the last one. And what happened, hmm:_

_:You'rre what happened, Rrrigan. You jussst can't adapt, can you:_

_:I don't _want _to adapt! And even if I wanted to, I couldn't. You and your savage impulses…You! You…:_

_:I have a name, Rrigan. And you'rre not alone in thessse impulssesss. I know you too well.:_

_:That's it, isn't it? We know each other too well and for too long. Too well to stand each other, and too long to hate each other. Don't we, Torren:_

This said with the deepest bitterness and frustration. Rigan sighed and motioned for the tavern girl. She sauntered over, her movements determined by a youthful confidence and refreshingly devoid of any jadedness. Rigan didn't notice. Torren did.

_:Lovely young lady, issn't sshe? I rrreally preferr the people we meet in thessse ssmall villagesss. Not that we everr passs thrrough any larrge townsss or ccitiess. Not that you would allow it.:_

Rigan nodded at the girl's offer of drink. He sighed and tried to evade Torren's trap. _:Since when have human women interested you, anyway:_

_:I've been with you too long.: _came the amused reply. _:And I'm beginning to sssee the appeal. We'rre ssso connected…I would have noticssed it beforrre, excssept we both werrre too young. Barrely overrr the thresshold of adolessscence, mysself. And sssame forr you, if I am not misstaken.:_

Rigan cursed. "Connected" was far too accurate a term for him. _Closer than a thrice-cursed life-bond, for all I care_, he thought. Torren heard him, of course, but skimmed right over the familiar rant of self-loathing.

_:Perrhapsss, if we werrre to ssee my people, you would be attrrracted to the women of my kind. I think you harrdly notice yourrr own kind. But…:_ He trailed off, disconsolate. Rigan knew how it went. Torren would never see his people again. He was too…ashamed, maybe.

He bent his head and accepted the mug the girl handed him. She smiled and nodded her head in thanks at the coins handed to her. It was a bit much, but neither of the two minded. They rarely needed money, living off the land, and what they did need; they bought with money earned from temporary occupations at the occasional farmstead or village. They borrowed books, traded for food once in a while, and mostly spent coin on the necessary clothing for Rigan. _That_ had needed to be replaced constantly during the first year until the ever-clever Torren had used his journeyman-level mage Gift to make some magical alterations to the clothing. He'd been very proud of it at the time, much to Rigan's disgust. Torren had, rather pompously to Rigan's mind, declared it to be the first spell of its kind. Until Rigan had pointed out that such a spell had never been needed before. Not before the Mage Storms, anyway. The two had immediately fallen into a depressed state of mind lasting until Torren spotted a wounded deer the next day. "Dinnerrr!" he had declared, and ripped into the poor, defenseless creature with such zeal that Rigan became rather violently sick. Which had effectively ruined the meal for both of them. Not that anything could be done about _that_.

Torren had not seen his family for several years. Rigan had been orphaned at early childhood and had made his way alternately through the streets and the houses of kindly widows in his home town. He was bright, though, and had pulled himself up by means of the temple schools and whatever else he could find in books and through work experience. He'd helped out at the town inn and local shops, and had traveled south with one of those widows to Haven. With his sharp wits and ambition, he could have started an enterprise by now—he had ideas, ideas of a new type of business—like a tavern without the sleeping quarters, a chain of places where people could meet and order food. And he would be only twenty-three years old by now. At least, he thought he would be twenty-three. Or was _he_ twenty-two, and _Torren_ the one who was twenty-three?

Torren was smart, too. But he tended more toward the purely scholarly pursuits. Articulate, genteel and just a bit stuck-up, Torren was the gentleman to Rigan's streetwise personality. Rigan allowed himself a small smile, this one containing all the bitterness of the past few years. Certainly, Torren was the epitome of the refined gentleman—until the situation turned rough.

Whereas Rigan grew more calm and resourceful the more violent the situation was, Torren, on the other hand…Rigan lifted his arm to run his fingers through his hair. _Blonde, I think. It may have darkened since the Mage Storms; I haven't really looked at my reflection since then. Haven't wanted to. Haven't wanted to see what was behind the eyes…_

_:Ah, Rrrigan…:_

Rigan dropped his hand back down, inadvertently knocking the mug aside. The beer splashed a man sitting in a nearby chair. The man jumped up, wiping the beer off of his bearded face with a knotted fist. He turned toward Rigan, who gave a mental groan. He knew this type. They were just a fight waiting to happen. He rose out of his seat to apologize and leave before—something—happened. Again. Already, he could feel Torren's excitement. _:Calm down:_ he snapped, although he knew that Torren couldn't help it, no more than could Rigan help his own instincts. He opened his mouth to form the words of apology.

Only to find himself sprawled on the tavern floor, his hand clutching his left eye. The man tensed, expecting retaliation. He couldn't know that all Rigan cared about was leaving this place, this village. Right now. Before the—situation—spiraled out of his control. He struggled upright, bracing himself first on his hands, then his knees. He stood up and turned to go.

And doubled over as he was punched again. And again. The pain wasn't that bad, really; his body was far too strong for that, stronger than a young man's body should be. But he was too busy struggling with Torren to gather up the strength necessary to push the brawler aside and stagger out of the inn, back to where he belonged. Already, he could feel Torren's hiss in his throat. His head swung around, his eyes lifting to glare at his attacker. The tips of his fingers itched and the area just below his shoulder blades burned.

_:Torren, NO:_

But too far gone in bloodlust, the gryphon wouldn't listen. The man jerked as his collar was snatched and he was pulled forward to stare, transfixed, into the blue eyes of the young man who now had the upper hand over him. Deep blue eyes that faded, and then brightened into a fierce, golden hue.

Talons extended and four deep marks were slashed into the man's face, narrowly missing his left eye. Patrons shouted in alarm as the man was lifted and thrown crashing through one of the tables. They watched, hardly daring to move, as the now feral young man leapt down on top of his prey. His lip curled back as he looked down at his erstwhile attacker, and he lifted his arm, talons curved. His hair, now dark brown and shaggy, textured almost like feathers, fell around his face. Then his expression grew composed and genteel. He lowered his arm and swiveled around.

Torren stalked out of the inn, barely slowing down as he pressed additional coins into the tavern girl's limp hands. Once out of the inn, he ran down the road until he came to the wooded area marking the edge of the village. There, he allowed the rest of the change to come.

_:Rrrigan:_

_:Yes, Torren: _The tone was resigned.

_:I—I am sorry.:_

Another sigh._ :I know. I know how you feel before you do something, understand? I know before _we_ do something. And, Torren…:_

Torren gave his wings a shake and started to run through the clearing, gathering speed as he went. _:Yesss:_

_:You no longer owe me for changing on you in mid-flight.:_

They both laughed as Torren's hind foot left the ground, his wings spreading in flight.

And, of them all, this laugh was the bitterest.

o.o.o.o.o

"Get out of my way, you little snot!" Akakios shoved the Third-former away.

"Akakios!" The young mage inwardly groaned. Ciryl, while not a bully like Akakios, was also a slacker and one of the students least beloved by the teachers. And it looked like he was becoming a bit too familiar, again. Akakios sighed. It seemed like he was going to have to grind his fellow Fifth-former's head into the cobblestones again.

"Hey, Aki, I—erp!" Ciryl yelped as Akakios dragged him forward by his lapels. "I-I was only just coming to tell you that-that-that—"

"What, Ciryl?"

"P-p-perrey…"

"What about Perrey?" That name sounded familiar. A teacher? He didn't usually bother to remember most of their names.

"Th-they say that the Healers think he'll be fine. Just needs a week or so to make sure the bones heal fine and…" Akakios remembered Perrey now. He, along with his group of bullies, had tried to gang up on Akakios after classes. _Just a week at the House of Healing? He must have a stronger constitution than I thought_.

"B-but that's not all. You s-s-see—"

"Spit it out!"

"J-just that the headmaster's watching you. Something about you pulling up your marks on the next examinations or he'll throw you out to the Temple schools, no matter who your aunt is."

Akakios tried not to roll his eyes. It was the same thing, all over again. Nothing ever came of it. He ignored the comment about his aunt; they were all but strangers, anyway.

"He-he said that you got an _eight_ on your last mathematics exam!"

"And your point being…?"

"That's out of a hundred!"

It occurred to Akakios that he was doing much more complex equations in his magical studies than anything presented on those exams. He mentally shrugged his shoulders. He certainly didn't care about _school_.

"He means it this time, Akakios. He really hates you!"

"Well, thank you so very much for your concern, Ciryl," he drawled. He let go of the boy's lapels, and sent him sprawling into the dirt for good measure. "I'll keep it in mind."

Akakios strolled off through the Merchant School's entrance and down the hall toward the east wing, supposedly renovated centuries ago after a fire ripped through it—he'd been uninterested in the prestigious institution's history until he'd heard the rumors about its supposedly unsavory first years. Too bad you couldn't get away with what you could in those days, though Perrey's gang was coming awfully close to it. He walked down the hall, ignoring the cowers of the students and the looks of disapproval directed at him by the instructors. He was too preoccupied to acknowledge them, his mind occupied with thoughts of his magical training.

His master was hiding something. Akakios couldn't put his finger on it. He'd been working so hard completing the exercises he was given, especially since he had discovered the nodes. One raven lock fell down over his brow, obscuring his vision, and Akakios brushed it back. Then he blinked. Was his hair turning white? He relaxed. It was only a few strands. But it was a reminder of yesterday. Throwing his books aside, he had spent the afternoon and evening in his room, touching the ley-lines that ran parallel to the city, weaving the strands together into a spell. And now that he could touch the nodes that were only beginning to reform after the Mage Storms…

Those were the only times he felt at peace.

But the Blood-Adept was still hiding something. Akakios looked down at his wrist where a freshly-healed scar was hidden under his sleeve. Several weeks had passed since he'd actually started working blood-magic, using his own blood. His teacher had explained that it was best to first draw on one's own darker power through the blood, then eventually learn how to steal it along with other dark energies from the living, and to meld that power with that of the nodes, ley-lines and the lesser magics. A sort of cross between the Life-path and the Blood-path was what he was learning. His master had let it slip that those who deviated toward the Blood-path rarely continued their education in the ways of life-path magic, so seduced they were by the new source of easily-gained power. "Fools," the man had declared just the other day. "Impatient with the lust for power, and easily defeated by those better-educated life-pathers. They don't realize that the magic, whether from blood or the leylines, is just a tool, a way to gain more power. And that is why _you_ must be patient, Akakios; one lesson to be mastered at a time." An enigma his master was, to be certain.

Akakios like the power; he liked the way it made him feel. Of course, it had to be the gaining of _power_ he enjoyed; not the _craft_. That's all he wanted. He certainly wasn't interested in the _artistry_ of the magic, he told himself. Not _him_.

Even though he enjoyed playing with his shields, constantly reforming and improving them. Even though he liked modifying the spells, surprising his teacher with his innovations. Even though he often wondered if he could invent his own spells.

It had been four years since he'd met his teacher, an immigrant from the east, but it was only recently that he'd been possessed by this need to innovate, to create. He didn't understand it.

Reflexively, he glared at a First-former, causing the child to cower.

He just needed to spread his wings a little. _I guess I'll just pilfer one of the Mage's books. He won't mind. And if he does; oh, well._

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: Here's a little bit of interesting trivia. When I first came up with these characters, way back when, Torren was originally called Toreth. Then some time later I read the recently-released "Joust." And promptly went "Crap! Now I'll have to change his name." But now that I'm (hopefully) motivated to devote the time necessary to work on this fic, I'll be able to finish it before anything else forces me to change other aspects of this story. At least I know that one direction I'm aiming toward is something Lackey said she would never write about (and if you know what I'm talking about, please don't spoil it for the other readers!). But then again, people do change their minds. :-P


	3. Chapter 3: Myndira

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 3: Myndira

"Toril," Myndira said. "Welcome to your new home."

Toril swiveled his head around to stare at Myndira, as if to say, "This is a joke, yes?"

"I'm afraid this isn't a joke," she told him. She didn't reply to Toril's offended posture, but rather to his disgusted thoughts. 'Dira adjusted her lenses, settling them more firmly on her nose, and looked around at her newly-inherited property. "Acres and acres, and it's _all mine_," she muttered under her breath. She took a deep breath, taking in the dilapidated signal tower and ramshackle old barn. She observed the sad condition of the front yard and the stable's collapsing roof. "Suddenly that old joke doesn't seem so amusing anymore." She sighed. Toril followed her gaze to the stable and sent a wave of mutual feeling along with an image of vicious, teeth-gnashing rodents.

_:Look Toril, I know that there probably will be rats. I'll just have a "chat" with them, all right:_ 'Dira didn't as much mindspeak the words as send her part-Shin'a'in mount a set of pictures and emotions. Toril sent back a flood of reassurance and confidence in his human friend's abilities. 'Dira gave a half-hearted smile. At least Toril had trust in her abilities. She grounded and centered, then partially opened her shields.

And immediately sensed every single four-legged creature in the surrounding area.

_Oh, dear_.

'Dira reinforced her shields, spinning out the threads into a strong, yet flexible barrier. She couldn't completely block out every animal's mental presence, as the strength of her animal mindspeech was enough to rival that of any member of the Heraldic Circle. But 'Dira didn't mind.

_Sometimes I think I get along better with animals than I do with humans._ And it was true. The majority of Myndira Lyall's friends were animals. Myndira was on friendly terms with just about every type of animal, excluding the two-legged variety. In that sphere, however, 'Dira had little luck. She didn't make friends easily. Her differences, no matter how much she tried to conceal it, had worked against her during her last few years as one of the "Blues," or unaffiliated students. She'd kept apart even from the Heraldic trainees, some of whom shared her Gifts. She'd only made acquaintance with the Heralds long enough to have her mindspeech trained and to receive several lectures on the "moral behavior" expected of Gifted persons in the land of Valdemar. She had feared the lectures she would have received, had her animal mindspeech been even stronger than it was. Not that it was a particularly feared Gift; but that strength would have warranted further training sessions. Any more mind-to-mind work, and she feared the consequences.

Some of the Collegium instructors had expected that Myndira would be Chosen. After all, 'Dira was a dedicated and well-received, not to mention Gifted, student, descended from the mixed bloodlines of the gentry and nobility. They'd been surprised when 'Dira had completed her training as scholar without being Chosen. 'Dira hadn't lifted a brow. She knew that she wouldn't ever be Chosen. Even the Heralds, for all their kindness, wouldn't want to include her among their ranks. Too many allowances would have to be made. Even the endless benevolence possessed by the Companions had its limits.

And she was allergic to pain. Or so she had politely informed an exasperated Herald-Captain Kerowyn when asked why she hadn't attended her Weapons classes the ninth time in a row.

No, it was time to walk her own path, even if she must leave everything behind without explanation. She hadn't explained why she'd taken to studying politics and history at the Collegium instead of engineering and mathematics. And she certainly hadn't explained why she had accepted the "delightful property" left her by her uncle. She'd tried explaining once, and where had it gotten her? Only her grandfather and late uncle ever understood her, and her grandfather had expressed his heartbreak at her departure, promptly followed by a warm hug for good luck. And that was all she needed.

Grandfather didn't entirely see the need, the saint, but _she_ knew why she had taken this bit a land in some godsforsaken corner of Valdemar.

Freedom. That's what this place meant to her. Freedom to be herself, without consequences…

She started to smile. This might work out. She wasn't a complete fool; the remainder of her inheritance had been invested in several financial endeavors and, as operator of a signal tower, she would receive compensation from the Council. She would also earn money from her scholarly work; make a name for herself as a historian. Yes, this could work out, after all.

Toril stamped his front hoof, mentally nudging 'Dira, who started. _Plan later. Take care of greeting the neighbors now._ She expanded her mind, acquainting herself with the local fauna. There were small creatures mostly in the surrounding northern woodland. There were a few larger predators, too. _Wolves. That's good_. She sensed incredulity from Toril, and grinned in response. Toril had been with her for only a month. He had much to learn, 'Dira acknowledged as she sent her message out. Only a slight narrowing of the eyes betrayed her concentration.

She sensed a vague surprise, then apprehension from the stallion as first one, and then several large northern wolves stepped out from the woods, leaping easily over the ruin that may once have been the eastern garden wall. _:Calm down, Toril. I invited them.:_ she sent to the nonplussed horse. _Well, that'll teach him_ she smugly told herself. Toril snorted.

o.o.o.o.o

"Three long flashes, two short, one-short-two-long…."

The Healer cleared her throat. "I believe that's _two_ long flashes, one-short-two-long, _then_ two short, youngling." She chuckled. "But it's close enough. You really pick up on the signal-language quickly, though."

'Dira allowed herself a brief smile and turned toward Healer Ilona. The middle-aged woman grinned back at her. "It's because of my chosen profession, I suppose. I've had to learn several languages, a few with completely different structures. Signal-language is much easier, since, aside from specific symbols, the rest is just translating letters into their signal-code equivalents. But I'm not that confident in my abilities after just a week. I'm perfectly aware that I completely mangled that last attempt."

"Well," Ilona temporized. "Yes, you did."

'Dira had to repress a laugh. Ilona was not just the only villager familiar with the signal-language; she was a master in it. The Healer had served on the Eastern border during the war against Ancar. Because more signal towers had been built due to the war, and because she'd learned the code at the Collegium, the Circle had stationed her in one of the larger border towns to take charge of the local House of Healing. Ilona frequently used the towers to send out for much-needed supplies. During the war, supplies were stretched thin, and the Council could trust Ilona to send for what was strictly necessary. The Healers' Circle decided that Ilona's experience on the battlefield would serve Valdemar best on the northern border, now that the Alliance had been formed and, so long as the Eastern Empire remained preoccupied with its own internal troubles, the greatest threat to Valdemar now came from possible barbarian armies from the north. So Ilona had been sent up to this village, Highglade.

Myndira believed herself to be very, very fortunate in having met the Healer. She felt Toril's agreement; Ilona had given him an apple.

Ilona leaned back in the Transmitter's chair and looked out of the tower window. "Well, I think that's enough for today. But before I leave for my home and the half-dozen patients with head-colds waiting for me, I'd like you to transmit your first message."

'Dira sat up straight in her chair. "Are you certain that a good idea? I've just barely learned the basics. And where could we possibly transmit, so far to the north?"

The healer smiled. "There's a Guard-tower in the next village over that serves as defense for the local area. The two villages are in relatively frequent contact for trade, healing services, and the rare emergency involving bandits and such. The Guard is in constant contact with other villages, and is always prepared for emergencies, so there's always someone on signal tower duty." Ilona adjusted the instruments that controlled the crystal and the mirrors. She turned on the tower lantern, since daylight was fast fading. "Here, I sent 'Hello.'" A few moments later, the receiving mirror was lit in a series of flashes.

"He just responded with the standard greeting, correct?"

Ilona nodded. "Now answer back."

'Dira frowned, concentrating on the controls. _Two long flashes, one-short-one-long…_ She let goof the controls and turned to Ilona.

Who was trying to keep a straight face.

"Out with it, Healer. What, exactly, did I just say?"

"Exactly?" 'Dira nodded. "Well, the direct translation would be 'Beware: The chickens are coming.'" The Healer started to laugh at 'Dira's expression, then 'Dira joined in. They both quieted as the receiver started blinking rapidly.

"What did _he_ say?"

"Exactly? Something along the lines of 'What the hell!' would be a reasonably accurate translation." The two of them looked at each other and burst out laughing again.

"_Gods_, that was funny!" Ilona declared, wiping at her eyes.

"True, but you should send a reply. Before the poor Guard starts to worry about an invasion or something of the like."

The Healer raised a brow, gray-streaked hair falling over her forehead. "Invasion? What sort of invasion?"

"Why, a Changechicken invasion, of course," 'Dira replied innocently. The two barely managed to repress their laughter at that.

o.o.o.o.o

Myndira was still laughing as she groomed Toril. Abruptly she stopped the circular motions of the brush. Toril lipped her affectionately, nudging her to continue. She responded, albeit slowly.

_:Toril: _ she sent, _:I think I made a friend today.:_

I'm_ your friend: _came the stallion's somewhat indignant response.

'Dira reached up and scratched his ears. _:I know that, you stubborn horse.:_ She tweaked an ear. _:But the loneliness has been like a whirlpool. It's been pulling me in for so very long, and I—:_ She accompanied the "words" with images of a dark, swirling pool. An open mouth, devouring her. Toril responded with alarm and 'Dira had to assure him that she was in no actual danger. She patted the horse and dug around in her pocket for a lump of sugar. And all was right with Toril's world once again.

_Lucky horse._

o.o.o.o.o

Akakios walked down the alley, easily avoiding some of the shortcut's more unsavory inhabitants. He knew the streets; until he met his Master in magic, he'd spent more time here than at the Merchant's School and his aunt's townhouse combined. He knew how to handle himself in a street fight, how to avoid trouble, how to stand up for himself—all things he'd learned since before his parents' deaths, before he'd been taken in by his mother's older sister.

His aunt might be wealthy, but his mother had only clung to the edges of respectability. Akakios frowned, his memory stretching, reaching back. They hadn't ever had much, the three of them, but they'd always managed….

He shook his head and shifted his attention to the bundle under his arm. It was a book, an _old_ book of powerful spells. He was still amazed he'd been able to filch it from his teacher's library. Not that it had been easy; he'd had to fool quite of few of the library's anti-theft spells and bolster his own concealment magics.

The corners of his lips lifted; he had his teacher to thank for that particular ability. A blood-adept residing in Haven, using the local magic, _had_ to be an expert at concealment magics, and this particular blood-adept had taught his apprentice well, whether he knew it or not.

But this knowledge had bothered Akakios. It was obvious to him that concealment magics were his teacher's forte, and that, added with the fact that he was primarily a practitioner of blood-magic, greatly puzzled Akakios.

Why was his teacher here? What was his purpose in Haven?

And his teacher, always prone to nervousness, had seemed particularly distraught of late.

Fortunately, the blood-mage's recent preoccupation had allowed Akakios the opportunity to "borrow" this particular book.

Akakios made his way to the better section of the city, entering his aunt's neighborhood. He paused, sensing something, and turned his head, his eyes following his instincts to the Lurynwright house.

He shook his head. It would appear that the recently retired Master Lurynwright was spying through his window again, the old busybody. And, being the neighborhood gossip he was, he would most certainly report to Akakios's aunt that her dear nephew was out wandering the streets at a time when proper young gentlemen ought to be at school.

But this was too great an opportunity for a testing a new spell to resist. Slowly winding threads of energy around himself, Akakios focused on a nearby leyline, which he had already diverted to pass through his aunt's kitchen garden. He thinned his shields and reached for the leyline with mental hands, the spell enveloping him coiling tighter and tighter.

Then he disappeared.

And with a muffled _thump!_ Akakios dropped down two inches onto the floor of his bedroom.

"Ouch!" The spell-book, which had somehow manifested itself separately from Akakios, dropped six inches down onto his head. It fell to the floor, falling open.

Rubbing his head, Akakios crouched down to look at the page. Black eyes widened to see that the book was written in some archaic mixture of Karsite and Shin'a'in. Fortunately, he knew some of both, contrary to what his academic marks in Languages class might indicate.

"Demon summoning?" Now _this_ was interesting. Akakios knew that his teacher never used such spells, at least not any as powerful as these. "These spells are ancient," the blood-mage had once explained to his curious apprentice. "They may have been saved and preserved in these books, but even today's most powerful mages can only hope to use watered-down versions of the safest spells written here. Even the Sorcerer-Adepts who created these spells used them rarely, if at all. Most of the spells in this book are strictly theoretical. They're dangerous boy, very dangerous. And no matter your other faults—of which you've a great many, dear apprentice—stupidity isn't one of them. So don't go around experimenting with these kinds of magics. Now, we _will_ be looking at a modified Gate-spell, useless as it may be these days without a large enough blood-sacrifice to make up for the depleted nodes and leylines. Little chance of being able to do _that_ with Heralds and the like poking their noses into…"

Although Akakios had been at pains not to mention that mages had only recently been able to practice magic within Valdemar at _all, _much less with the help of sacrifices, the blood-mage had certainly been correct about one thing: Akakios had absolutely no intention of experimenting. He might be brash, reckless and lacking in several of the better virtues, but Akakios D'Redgrayve was no fool. He had no desire to raze the entire neighborhood to the ground on a whim.

On the other hand, he _was_ extremely curious. So he sat down cross-legged on the bed and began to flip through the ancient codex, starting with the first spell.

He read it, then turned a page. Then another, and another, a frown of concentration beginning to form on his face.

_This is interesting..._

His teacher had claimed that these magics were too complex and dangerous, and Akakios could definitely see that they were dangerous—why would anyone want to open a portal into the Void, anyway?—but they weren't too difficult for him to understand. He flipped to a page on demon-summoning.

Demon-summoning had been practiced by the Karsite Black-robed priests before Solaris came into power, and that particular spell Akakios had learned. It was a clumsy spell and very risky, especially since it involved coercion-spells. It was, at its foundation, a Calling-and-Coercion spell, and took vast amounts of blood energy to Call even one demon. Added to that was a powerful coercion-spell which, if broken, would almost certainly result in the death of the mage involved if the demon turned on its own master. After that the demon would be loose, ravaging the mortal plane until it was either killed or it slipped back to the Abyssal plane on its own.

It was an unwieldy spell, truth be told, and one that Akakios had never seen his teacher use, least of all used it himself.

But this book contained other demon-summoning spells. And they didn't follow the standard Calling-and-Coercion pattern. In fact, they seemed more like a Gate-Spell, Akakios realized. According to the various mages from whom the spells had originated, these magics were strictly theoretical, untested, and extremely complex. Akakios frowned at that, and carefully re-read the formulas, translating the archaic script while mentally calculating the magical equations involved.

_They seem clear enough to _me, _even without a Shin a' in or Karsite dictionary as reference. _Very _much like a Gate-Spell, actually._ But, rather than cutting through the Void, these particular spells created a portal into the Abyssal plane itself. What was missing from these spells was a Summoning mechanism. Akakios's eyes brightened. He could do that; he _wanted_ to innovate and add to these ancient spells. He could already think of some ideas.

_Coercion spells aren't a good idea. If you could somehow convince the demons to come help you… Help do _what_, exactly, is the real question though. I'll bet that being able to call upon your own private army of powerful demons would come in handy for many situations. Especially when you're moving your furniture around. No, that's stupid. But it also depends on the _type _of demon you summon, too. Those standard summoning spells the Karsite Sun-Priests used would attract only those demons who wanted to be called upon to cause havoc and pain. Most Abyssal creatures feed on pain and death energy—at least those we know about—but I wonder if they're all driven by the same intentions…_

He stayed up all night, thinking over the Summoning mechanism and drawing on sheet after sheet of costly paper with his charcoal pencils, working throughout the early morning hours. Finally satisfied, he made his way to the bed. _The only thing left to work on is the energy-source. I know that blood-magic is the key, but somehow I think you could find an alternative source. But for some reason I don't think I can use nodes or leylines for this spell. The natural fluctuations would create terrible backlash…_

He started to crawl under the sheets, only to remember that he had lessons with the blood-mage this morning. Sighing, Akakios made his way to the window and opened it, hoping the fresh air would inspire him with a reasonable excuse. He blinked; the entire city was covered in a thick blanket of late winter snow. _Yes, that'll do well enough for an excuse_. He was turning back to the bed when a strong breeze blew through the open window, causing papers to blow off his desk and rifling through the pages of the spell-book. Akakios stared down at the spell revealed.

"Spell-crafted weapons?"


	4. Chapter 4: Torrigan

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 4: Torrigan

Torren flapped his wings, trying to regain his equilibrium in the face of the wind's continued onslaught. Tiny hailstones bit into the soft flesh beneath his feathers, which were quickly becoming drenched.

_:I'm cold, wet, misserrrable, and I'm cerrrtain I'll catch a cold frrrom thisss.: _Torren complained to his partner. And he meant every word. Unfortunately, they happened to be flying over a lake at the moment. And if that weren't bad enough, the lake they happened to be flying over just so happened to be Lake Evendim itself.

_:Of course, we would just _have_ to be caught in the first big spring rainstorm right at the moment we were half-way across the biggest lake this side of the continent. Figures.:_

_:You sssshouldn't be complaining. _I'm _the one who'sss experrriencing it perrrsssonally.:_

_:You're the one who wanted to take a look at "one of the most historically significant locations in Valdemar." What was it you said? Ah, yes, I remember now: "An educational opportunity to fly over such a historic monument of civilization's most significant war must not be passed." And you know what I say to that? To the nine hells with your "historical monument!" Curse you, you stupid featherball:_

_:Asss I rrrrecall, you werrre the one who wanted to sssee that little merrchant-town.:_

Rigan was incensed. _:What do you mean, 'little merchant-town'? Sure, it _used_ to be a trading town, but since the war with Hardorn and our treaties with the Hawkbrothers, it's now the largest trading outpost in western Valdemar, practically a city! And just because I want to see the place doesn't give you the excuse to insult—":_

_:Apologiesss. But we usssually tend to avoid the morrre heavily-populated arrreasss. Arrre you rrready to finally sssee sssome civilization:_

Rigan was struck with a sudden doubt. _:No, never mind. It was a stupid idea, anyway, and I know how much difficulty we have with being around so many people…:_

_:I'll be fine: _the gryphon said lightly. _:It will be a change. We may even ssspend a few daysss at an inn, decsside wherrre we ssshould go frrrom herrre. Rrrigan:_ his tone turned serious. _:About the way we have been living thessse passst few yearrrs; I think it would be bessst if--:_ Torren broke off with a sudden yelp as lightning struck by too close for comfort.

_:What was that, Torren:_

_:It wasssn't imporrrtant:_ the gryphon sent awkwardly. _:Jussst that ssspending sssome time in thisss town might be a nicsse change of pacsse.:_

_:I suppose so. Maybe we'll even find some temporary employment there; I've been wanting to _do_ something for quite a while, but in our condition, well…:_

_:Yesss:_ the gryphon responded thoughtfully, and added, as if to himself. _:We'll sssee about fulfilling _both _of ourrr dessirrresss in the town…:_

The clouds rumbled, letting loose another barrage of hailstones and stinging rain.

_:…As soon as we get out of this gods-cursed thunderstorm: _thought both simultaneously.

o.o.o.o.o

Westridge was a bustling town, Torren noted with some discomfort. Some of that discomfort transferred itself onto Rigan, and he could feel Torren shifting restlessly deep within their shared body.

Rigan cursed inwardly. He'd forgotten how claustrophobic the gryphon could be, and they weren't even in the town proper yet. He pulled his cloak more tightly about himself as though it were a shield, silently fretting over his hair, his clothing, the almost imperceptible aura of _otherness_ that clung to his body, causing people to unconsciously give him space. He passed below the guards standing watch on the city's walls, remnants from a past when Westridge stood sentry against the wild Pelagirs on Valdemar's western frontier.

Rigan could feel Torren's rising panic as walls began to surround them on all sides and he quickly sought a distraction.

"You know, we really could use a horse," he said out loud.

_:What:_

"Look, I know you can fly, but I think it would be a good idea." A woman passing by looked at him strangely. Rigan colored slightly and continued his conversation internally. _:For one thing, we wouldn't have to depend on your flying, and it would be faster than my walking. And what if we became injured? You can still fly, I'm not arguing against that, but when we actually move, we could use the horse. For carrying our supplies, and--:_

_:Hmm. Firrrsst, you want to tourrr a larrrge town, now you want a horrrsse. Could it be that you arrre finally becoming civilizssed? No longerrrr hiding frrrom the worrrld, now, arrre we, hmmm: _Fortunately for Rigan's peace of mind, Torren seemed oddly pleased _:Next, you will be wanting to sssettle down, yess:_

Rigan froze. _:Don't be ridiculous! How can we possible stay in one place, like _this_? Whenever we stay any place for just a fortnight or two, well, look what happens! No, we can't live among your people--:_

_:No, I sssupposse not: _the gryphon concurred sadly. _:But--:_

_:--And we certainly can't settle in a town. You _hate _large towns! You know what would happen:_ By now, Rigan had forgotten that the entire point of the conversation was to divert Torren's attention from the town they were now _in_.

Just then, Rigan caught sight of an inn—a cheerful looking place with brightly-painted shutters, situated across the street from a group of large warehouses built for caravan traders to store their goods. It was a tall building, with small balconies on the upper two levels. Three sides surrounded an interior courtyard, with a detached stable completing the square-shaped complex. A blue-painted sign proudly declared the place to be the Lakeside Inn, though it was only the town's eastern limit which bordered on Lake Evendim's shore, and not actually the inn itself. _:That looks like a respectable place. Let's stay there tonight.:_

o.o.o.o.o

As usual, Rigan and Torren took the most inconspicuous seat in the darkest corner furthest away from the entrance to the inn's tavern room. Once situated, they discussed their next move.

_:Ssssoo, oh wondrrrouss plannerrr, what sshall be ourr firrsst move? Horrrssse, orr sshould we jusst procsseed dirrectly with moving on to the next village:_

Rigan ignored the gryphon's sarcasm. _:Horse, definitely. I hear the Tale'sedrin have brought up some fine beasts this spring. And, if you're nice, we can go see that temple you've been wanting to record about in your journals.:_

"Paki!" someone shouted. "PAKI!" They turned around, curious, only to be nearly knocked out of their seat by a passing whirlwind. The whirlwind came to a screeching halt several paces away, near the fireplace where a scarlet-clad figure bent over a worn saddlebag. The former whirlwind, Rigan and Torren noticed, was actually a boy in his mid-teens who could only be described as striking with his pronounced cheekbones, dark skin and black, longish hair drawn back into a haphazard braid. He clutched a ladle in his right hand. Apparently, he was the inn's cook.

_:Shin a'in_: Torren announced.

_:Huh:_

_Shin a'in blood. Half-brreed. One of the clansss trrade up herre. Since the mage storrrmss:_

_:Oh.:_ Interest piqued now, Rigan paid closer attention to the duo by the fireplace. The figure bent by the fireplace was in woman in her mid-forties with medium-length hair, light-brown in color. As they watched, the woman bent down again to stuff a beautifully crafted lyre into the saddlebag.

_A Bard. But what would a Bard be doing here at _this _inn? _Rigan and Torren took in their surroundings. The tavern was certainly large and clean enough, but obviously suffering from neglect. There were only a few patrons scattered here and there, and, with a few exceptions, their garments suggested that they were clerks from the warehouses across the street. A single serving girl hurried from table to table, disappearing behind the same swinging door through which the boy had made his own entrance, then reappearing laden with dishes she distributed to the few customers. She then collected the empty dishes and orders from the various patrons before rushing back through the swinging door, continuing this same frantic routine over and over again.

_Hmm_. Rigan looked down at his own meal. Or at what had been his meal; the food had been surprisingly good. And yet there were so few customers…

_: This place is sorely in need of better management.:_ Torren kept silent.

"What's the matter, Jaron?" The two turned their attention back to the Bard and her companion by the fireplace. The Bard shook her head.

"My fiddle, boy. The one your mother saves in the back for me, for when I come up here to Westridge for a visit? Always kept it in the accounting room. Thought I'd play something cheerful on it for your customers." The Bard broke off and looked around the tavern room. She blinked and turned back to the adolescent. "Or what _remains_ of your customers, I should say." Jaron fixed the boy with a look. "What in Havens name is going on here, boy? I know your mother's been having a bit a trouble running the place the last couple of years—she wrote me about it—but never in the years I've known her has it been this bad!" The boy shuffled awkwardly as Rigan and Torren observed the pair with interest. "Now, what's happened since the last time I visited?"

As the boy opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by a loud _sploosh!_ followed by a cry of alarm. Then came the sound of a chair being overturned. The boy, the Bard, Torren and Rigan all shifted their attention to the other side of the tavern where the commotion had originated.

One of the clerks was clutching the serving girl's arm while trying at the same time to hold his dripping shirt away from his body. The man was carrying on while the girl, a child of about ten bearing features similar to those of the boy, squirmed in his grasp.

"I cannot _believe_ this!" The man practically howled, "Just spilled ale all over my one good new tunic of the season, right before I have a meeting with the head of the Weavers Guild, and _doesn't even apologize_…" and so on in this vein. Before any of the other customers could intervene, the girl stopped her squirming and kicked the man squarely in the solar plexus, scampering away while he doubled over in pain. She took refuge behind Rigan, ducking behind his back. Rigan and Torren started. _What does she--_?

"_Hey!_" The man, now somewhat recovered, tried to grab at the girl. "Now wait just a minute," Rigan blocked the man's advances. He looked around for the retired mercenary which such a large tavern usually would maintain on its staff, but that little detail, like the rest of the inn, had apparently been neglected as well.

_Wonderful._

"Maybe you'd like to step outside and have some fresh air to clear your head," Rigan said as placatingly as he could. "I'm certain that the innkeeper will deal with the girl." Already he could feel Torren mantling within, bristling for a fight.

"The innkeeper's just a kid, too! He was standing right _there_—" the clerk pointed in the general direction of the fireplace. "And the exact same thing happened to me a se'nnight, too!" He finally succeeded in grabbing the serving girl's collar.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rigan could see the Bard approaching, a determined expression on her face. The teen boy was also approaching, his features set in an angry expression, oddly enough directed at the younger girl. But both were still several paces away, and so Rigan stepped in front of the girl and tugged at the clerk's arm, detaching his hand from the girl's collar. The other man staggered back a few paces, a bit tipsy from ale. As he tried to regain his balance, his other arm swung out sideways and bopped Rigan in the face.

_Thwack!_

And Rigan's final thought, before Torren took over, was _why do _we_ always attract these types?_

The boy and the Bard both ducked as the drunk flew through the air to hit the wall behind them with a loud _thump_. He slid down the wooden panels with a groan. Torren inhaled a sharp gasp and quickly turned to hide his face away from his fascinated audience. Golden eyes faded to blue, and Rigan sighed as his fingernails returned to normal length and the twin fires below his shoulder blades faded away. Torren had managed to regain a fair amount of control this time, a fact for which they were both grateful. They collected themselves and Rigan turned back to face the tavern.

Only to come face-to-face with the fascinated expressions of the Bard and her young comrade.

"That was an interesting trick," the Bard commented. The boy just stared at Rigan, turned to glance at the prostrate clerk, and gulped. The serving girl followed her brother's gaze, and then turned to look up at Rigan with almost sickening adoration.

_:It'sss the grrryphon charrrrm.: _Torren sounded smug, though somewhat shaken. _:They'rrrre alwaysss attrrracted to the grrryphon charrrm. It'sss only naturrral.:_ Rigan mentally rolled his eyes and walked over to the clerk.

"Sir, I must apologize," he said gently. "I'm afraid I overreacted a bit."

" 'Overreacted'?" the Bard muttered to herself. "I'd give that 'overreaction' a high score for impact, 'cept that the trajectory was off."

Rigan ignored the sarcastic comment with great dignity and helped the man up to his feet, guiding him to a nearby seat. "You had every right to be annoyed at the serving girl, though mayhap a little too much drink made you overly harsh."

The clerk looked somewhat wary of Rigan, but seemed placated at his little speech. "And what about my tunic?" he demanded.

Rigan let out a deep breath. "I'm certain that the innkeeper will not let such an incident go without compensation _this_ time, sir. Why don't you get cleaned up in one of the guestrooms upstairs, and then the innkeeper will see about replacing that tunic?" He looked over at Shin'a'in teenager who nodded, an expression of profound gratitude on his face.

Rigan turned back, and set his features into the customer-pleasing smile honed by a childhood of working at village shops and inns. "Well," he said cheerfully. "That takes care of our little problem now, doesn't it?"

o.o.o.o.o

"Let me take care of that for you," the boy said, reaching for Rigan's bruised cheek with a cold, damp cloth. "By the way, my name is Khaliko. What's y--?"

"I thought that your name was Paki," Rigan interrupted. The boy turned red while the girl and the Bard laughed. "Actually, his full name is Khaliko Anu'shka. But we all call him Paki. And this little scamp here," she nodded at the girl, "is called Ramla Anu'shka." She stood up. "And I'm Jaron Lalo, Master Bard at your service." She bowed. "Here on vacation. And you are…?"

_:Ssince we both made ourrsselvess known to thiss interrresssting grroup:_ the gryphon said dryly, interrupting Rigan's response. _:Perrhapss we sshould give them both ourr namess. Of course, Torren Rigan sounds rather silly, doesn't it:_ Rigan blinked.

_Well, I suppose that's only fair. Torren plus Rigan, Rigan plus Torren—Rigorren? No…Ganren…Torrigan. Yes!_ He turned towards Jaron.

"My name's Torrigan. And I'm glad to meet you all."

_:That isss the bessst you could come up with:_

_:Shut up, featherball.:_

"And we, in turn," said Jaron, "Are quite glad to meet you. Especially Ramla here. Speaking of which, Paki, you still haven't answered my question." She turned toward the boy, who swallowed and looked at his feet. "A year ago, any patron's complain would have been addressed without needing to bully a hireling! And your mother would never have let—" She stopped and sternly looked at Ramla, who returned the glare with an angelic expression. "—And your mother would never have let this place fall into such disrepair. So out with it, boy; what in Havens name has been going _on_? Where's your mother?"

Paki only withdrew further. "She's gone," Ramla said, her face carefully blank.

"Gone? As in, back to the Dhorisha Plains to be with the rest of her Clan? Or…" Jaron stopped short. Rigan and Torren understood; the answer was plain in the faces of the two siblings. "Oh."

"What about their father?" Rigan interjected.

Jaron shook her head. "Johab died some years ago, during the Mage Storms. The Change-circles spawned some unholy things, especially so close to the Pelagirs, and there were some already created before they got the shield-wall up; Johab volunteered for a party to hunt them down before they got into the city. He didn't make it back from one of the hunts." Rigan and Torren could only understand; they both knew very well the "unholy things" created by the Change-circles.

_If I hadn't gone storming out after what Widow Marmon said. So self-assured that I could get anywhere I wanted in life on confidence alone…vowed I'd make something of myself, poor as a temple-mouse I might be, and to the hellfires with what everyone else said! But the thunderstorm—should've realized by then they always accompanied those Mage Storms. Walked right into the teeth of one, over that rickety old bridge when the lightning hit. I would've drowned too, if Torren hadn't saved my sorry behind. I owe him a lot, though I sometimes think death might be easier than what followed…_

But it was no use to reminisce on "what-ifs;" maybe, when all was said, they had been luckier than some. And maybe they could find something to do with their lives, as entwined as they were. Some way to become more than recluses, find their niche somewhere…

Jaron was talking to the siblings now, oblivious to the other pair's ruminations. "…both of you, trying to run this place _alone_. I can't fathom it."

"It gets worse, Cousin." Paki said dryly, and he chuckled a bit despairingly. "We've competition now. Town keeps growing, and none of the merchants want to deal with a couple've kids. And now the grain-growers, they say they don't have to follow through on the deal to keep us in flour or cornmeal for the next year…"

"When'd you sign it?" Rigan broke in.

"Huh?"

"The contract, youngling. When did you—your mother, I mean—sign the contract with the local farmers? And was kind of deal was it?"

Jaron and Paki traded mystified expressions. "Um, Mother signed one five years ago, then renewed it two years ago for a three-year deal. And she paid ahead part of it. I think. I mean, there's so many contracts and things she left in her desk in the accounting room, and I've been trying to get them all figured out since she d—since she left us."

"Um." Rigan's mind was racing now, long-repressed memories coming to the fore. He remembered working at the tavern, the shops in his hometown, learning all he could so he'd never end up a beggar on the streets. "They can't do that."

"But they _said_, that as mother's not here and it's just us kids, 'sides as we can't pay them back half of the--"

"They still can't do that. Laws, regulations. They're legally bound to hold to the contract, whether or not your parents are alive, so long as you continue to run the inn and the inn was legally passed from your mother to you. And they have to wait a certain period while you get the inn back to running normally again. One of my old employers, she made sure it was _still_ law, in case something happened to her and her young brood had to take over." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Here now, where's that contract? I'd like to take a look."

Paki blinked, but he led Rigan to the small office area he dubbed "mother's accounting room," with a fascinated Ramla and mildly amused Bard in tow. The accounting room, it turned out, was located in a small area behind the kitchen—which Torren suggested was probably because the oven fires would keep the room quite cozy in winter—and was furnished with a large desk, a worn bookshelf carrying various tallying books, and a sturdy chest of drawers. The desk itself contained a variety of pens, charcoal pencils, inkbottles, parchment and writing slates; the top of the bookshelf was ornamented with some odd little figurines Rigan assumed to be of Shin a'in origin. The chest was crammed full of various papers and documents, plus one battered, ugly fiddle which Jaron immediately grabbed and hugged to her chest. It took Rigan all of thirty seconds to make sense of the system in which the papers were organized, and about three seconds more to immerse himself in the inn's business matters.

_Apparently, this place was quite an operation. Whoever said that Shin a'in horse traders know their finances definitely knew what she was talking about._ He settled down to the pleasure of sorting, filing and putting a royal to mess finally to rights. It was like being thirteen again and helping the village apothecary keep inventory.

"Just a little effort and you can have this place running ship-shape again," he pronounced to the dubious little group crammed into the small room.

_:The weaverr iss one with the loom, I sssee.:_ the gryphon commented dryly as Rigan rifled through the file marked "Contracts—merchants—kitchen." _:Shut up, featherball.:_ Rigan responded absently. "Aha!" he declared, fishing out the contract he had been looking for. "Here we are. And, see?" He waved the contract in front of Jaron and Paki. "Legally tied and bound, as I said. But…" he continued, skimming the last few lines of the document, "you could really do better. This is a good contract for when it was made two years ago, but Westridge has expanded since then. What about those caravan warehouses next door? I'm pretty certain that they represent some other farmers' groups, and I've heard village folk say with prices as they are right now--"

"Hold on there, just a moment," Jaron interrupted, laughing. "And they say that Bards are masters at grabbing an audience. Have you ever run an inn before, maybe your mother or your father was one? You _are_ a bit young."

Rigan blinked. "Erm, no, not exactly, though I worked at one for a brief time, as a server." _And I'm not _that_ young. Especially not when you add Torren's age to mine!_

"A bit knowledgeable for a server, though, aren't you, Torrigan?"

"Working in an inn gave me some insight and ideas for how I'd run one some day. Or my own shop."

"Really." It wasn't a question so much as a statement, and there was a hint of something in the Bard's voice. "You don't seem the greedy type, though." Jaron seemed to address that last statement to herself.

Rigan was more than a little put out. _:What, by the Lord and Lady, is wrong with ambition? Why do people give me such strange expressions when my interest in something is more than just as an average hireling? Like when Widow Marmon said that as just a poor orphan, I should content myself with having found any halfway decent work at all. Just once, I'd like to meet someone who understood my desire to pull myself up in this world. Just once.:_

_:Errr, Rrrigan? You may like making plansss, but living asss we do, therrre hasss alwaysss been a perrrfect excussse forrr you to avoid purrrsuing them. Assk yourssself: do you rrreally have what it takesss:_

Rigan bristled. _:Well, I'm not going to allow the _next_ opportunity to pass me by.:_

_I'm through hiding._ But Rigan was visited by the brief thought that he'd just been goaded into doing something. He tried nudging Torren further, but received no response. He gave up and worked to explain himself to Jaron.

"It's not greed! There's just a challenge, I suppose you would say, in building something up larger and stronger. If anyone knows how important that kind of security is, it's me. Even in Valdemar, a kid without family has to work hard to find a place for himself, or end up begging in the streets. And since there's nothing to tie me down, why not take the risk in going out to find that place?"

"So you'd be willing to take a lot on." Rigan looked up. Yes; the Bard was definitely smiling, and Paki seemed optimistic. Ramla looked worried.

Rigan blinked. "What are you--?" He stopped. Yes, Jaron was definitely grinning and Paki wore an expression of a lost pilgrim who, after having traversed a parched desert for many days, has finally discovered a source of fresh, clean water. And Torren, in that shared part of him, laughed and said _:Thisss iss the besst chancsse we everr had, and we'rrre not going to rruin it.:_

"Oh."

_I suppose we did find a place to stay, after all._


	5. Chapter 5: Redscythe

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 5: RedScythe

In the end, Akakios had to scrap all of the weapons ideas contained in the spell-book as heavily flawed in theory, and unfeasible in practice. Even the least ambitious of the theories contained therein he dismissed as each carrying with it its own dire set of consequences. He had no intention of being charred alive, for example, or of having his internal organs inverted or sucked into a portal leading to the Abyssal Plane.

But the idea remained with him. Throughout the end of winter and into early spring he worked, drafting diagram after diagram, using mental and magical simulations to test each theory. Until, the day after the first big spring rainstorm, he narrowed it down to one.

Now he just had to choose which type of weapon he wished to use.

The excitement and anticipation Akakios felt permeated all of his daily routines. Even his aunt and his teachers noticed an overall improvement in the wayward youth's behavior, though they didn't openly comment on it for fear it would evaporate as quickly as it had formed. Not even Ciryl's rude though timely observation could spoil his mood.

"Erm, Aki?"

"Yes, Ciryl?" came his idle response. A pencil shaded in the picture of a broadsword in the margins of his history notes.

"What's happened to your _hair_!"

So it was after perfecting a spell to hide the state of his silvering hair and lightening eyes that Akakios began his weapon-search in earnest.

o.o.o.o.o

People always commented about the spring: how beautiful the flowers looked in the parks, how lovely it was to take one's horses out for a delightful gallop out in the balmy weather. How the change in seasons, from the last winter blizzard to the first scorching days of summer, made people so happy and carefree.

Akakios thought this all so much rubbish.

_My classmates wouldn't say those things if they ever visited Exile's Gate. Not any bloody time of the year._

Even Lady Spring couldn't reach through the filth, the hopelessness of Haven's dregs. The Heralds had all but given up on that place, apparently smart enough to realize that all the dirt and debris they swept out of the better areas of the city had to settle and collect _somewhere_. Even Haven had its dangerous, dirty and rat-infested slums.

_Welcome to Exile's Gate._

This was where he and his parents had lived, on the edges of the squalor. A shabby-genteel flat rented out by two hard-working shopkeepers and their perpetually in-trouble son. "That Akakios," folks used to say. "No ambition but the streets. Boy's goin' ta break his mother's heart one of these days."

_Not that I meant to; that's just the way it was. I didn't mind, even had some fun. Every time a gang fight'd start, I'd show up, knock a few heads around, and make it clear just whose territory they were on. _

There was the thrill of the challenges between the rival groups, the fights. The power plays. The occasional job—intimidate a shopkeeper, retrieve a stolen item, ensure packages arrived where they were supposed to. And he could always pick up a valuable skill, a bit of knowledge or two.

_Like where to get a quality weapon for a cheap price._

No sense in rummaging around the upscale armories. Akakios was perfectly aware he didn't know which traders carried the worthwhile stuff, and which catered to empty-headed nobles' brats looking for an impressively designed, but otherwise useless dress-weapon to hang at their sides. And researching the problem among his peers would only draw unwanted attention.

_Dear gods, I can imagine it now...Ciryl would jump all over me with those obnoxious questions of his, the other students would nervously ask _why_ I'm interested in a weapon. The headmaster would get wind of the whole matter and assume that I had a plan involving taking out the entire teaching staff. Not that I haven't ever daydreamed of doing just that._

Another consideration was money: Akakios's aunt had a lot of it, and Akakios had almost none. He knew it, his aunt knew it, and each was perfectly aware of the other's knowledge. His aunt made no bones about the fact that she considered her delinquent nephew to be a charity case, and an ungrateful one at that. But as long as Akakios attended class, didn't permanently injure anyone (or at least wasn't caught), and for the most part left her alone, his aunt would continue to support and provide for him until she deemed her familial obligation finally met.

_And if she knew that I was being trained as a mage, and in the more unsavory Arts at that, I'd be cut off without a ha'penny. But I'm not half as terrified at that prospect as she probably believes. I did do all right for myself that winter after mother died, up until my aunt decided to take an interest in me. I can take care of myself if I have to._

But that didn't mean he much cared to find himself out on the street, which would happen if his aunt discovered several valuables missing, pawned so that he could afford a fancy weapon.

_So I need an alternative source._

There were two good weapons dealers in Exile's Gate that Akakios knew of. The first was located near some shops where his Master often went to purchase items for use in his spells, which was why Akakios had chosen the second, down in the most dangerous section off of Exile's Road. He turned the corner onto a street lined on both sides with closely-packed, dilapidated buildings. Prostitutes leaned out of brothel windows to display their wares, heavily painted faces showing signs of age and wear both. Beggars half-slept on doorsteps, every once in a while lethargically waving away the flies buzzing about in the dusty air.

_It's like coming home again. _

o.o.o.o.o

The weapons dealer, Egon, had set up shop in the remains of an old temple to Kernos, which rumor said had been abandoned by the priests sometime around the reign of Elspeth the Peacemaker. Looking at it, Akakios told himself that the building remained standing entirely by the divine grace of that god himself.

But the inside suggested that the building was of sounder architecture than it appeared from the outside, and Akakios suspected certain cleverness on the part of the owner. As a dealer in weaponry, from crossbows to the occasional shipment of explosive powder, Egon preferred to keep a low profile. He didn't need to advertise; his reputation for both quality products and discretion meant that his customers would come to him.

_Too bad he's out of his bloody mind._

"So, sir, what instrument would you be playing, then?" This expectant query was being directed to Akakios by a rather pompous-looking man in his early sixties. He had bright, black eyes set in a relatively unwrinkled face; graying hair was neatly combed away from his forehead.

As far as Akakios was concerned, this code of referring to each weapon as a type of musical instrument was completely absurd. Keeping a low profile was one thing; going to this sort of extreme was ridiculous. Most likely everyone in the entire neighborhood knew what this man really sold, and just as likely they didn't care. But Egon truly believed that this game was providing sufficient cover for his little operation and, either way, he did know his merchandise. Perhaps he should have some respect for the man?

Unfortunately, respect for any type of authority figure went against Akakios's better nature. "Well, with most stringed instruments, the quality of tone often relies on the age of the wood. Oh, and it should probably be very, very sharp." _And it should be worthy of a powerful, feared and respected mage. Would you carry anything like that, shopkeeper?_

Egon pointedly ignored the sarcastic jab, and turned to face the collection mounted on the store's eastern wall. "Perhaps I should be a bit more specific, sir? Do you play a wind instrument—" Here he waved at an assortment of longbows, crossbows and the like. "—or perhaps your skills lie with something more resonant?" He nodded at the displays of broadswords and rapiers.

"Neither," said Akakios between clenched teeth. _Is this man insane? No one in his right mind would open a music-store in this part of Exile's Gate! _"I do not have such refined tastes, nor do I have the skill. I prefer the—simpler melodies, played on a simpler instrument."

Egon put on an affronted expression. "Then why are you even here? I cater only to the finest musicians, and I would hardly want to do business with an amateur who has no appreciation at all for fine craftsmanship! 'Simple instruments,' my f—"

That was it. The last thread of Akakios's patience snapped, and he hauled the weapons dealer forward by his collar. "Now let's get one thing clear, old man," he hissed. "I'm here to buy a weapon. Something sharp, and something dangerous. You know that, I know that. So let's cut through this annoying little charade and get down to business."

Eyes wide, Egon quickly nodded. Akakios dropped him. _Now we'll have an end to this 'music' garbage._

The weapons dealer gulped and cleared his throat. "What are you interested in, then?"

Akakios frowned. "I know very little of sword- and bow-work. Just enough to make a halfway decent attempt at defending myself. Street fighting, however, is more my way of doing things. Knives, daggers, chains, clubs, hand-to-hand. But I'm looking for something a step up, something more impressive. Do you carry anything like that?"

Egon seemed to brighten a bit and regain some of his confidence at this challenge to his skills. He led Akakios to another section of his store.

"Whatever you decide upon, you will still need to dedicate time to learn how to use it effectively," he began sternly. "But if you have the fighting skills you claim, and the discipline and patience necessary to master your weapon, I may be able to help you. Perhaps something a bit…less subtle is what you need." He opened wide a display case, and removed an object from inside. "Now _this_ instrument be more to your liking, lad?"

Egon proudly held out his find for Akakios's perusal.

"It's a scythe."

The weapons dealer looked pained. "It's not a scythe, boy, it's a _battle_ _axe_. Can't you tell by looking at it?"

"I am looking at it, old man. It looks like a farmer couldn't decide whether he wanted to chop wood or reap hay. I may be a city-bred brat, but I know a basic farm implement when I see one."

"And it's precisely because you've never reaped hay in your life that you can't tell the difference, boy. It's obviously too heavy for farm work, and the wrong shape besides. You _could_ use it to chop grass, but it's meant more for chopping heads. 'Sides, you see here? It's thick at the base and tapers down to a sharp but wide edge. That's where you do your business. Here, swing it at that practice block, over there."

Akakios gingerly grasped the iron shaft and took a couple of practice swings. The weapon was unwieldy at first, but then he found the balance of it. Oddly feeling as though he had done this many times before, he completed an over-head swing, and then swiftly aimed the blade down sideways at the practice block. With a quiet _thwock!_ the wood split into two smooth-edged pieces.

Egon nodded with satisfaction. "Thought as much. A street-fighter like you, you need something less subtle. Less parrying, like a rapier, and more chopping and bashing, like a club. But lucky for you, you're more graceful with that thing than I anticipated."

"It's not too heavy, but it's long. So how, exactly, would I carry this through the streets without arousing any suspicion from the constables?" _Not to mention my aunt's servants_, Akakios thought to himself.

Egon shrugged. "Not my problem. But you said for yourself it looks like a scythe, and probably not too many people here in the city could likely tell the difference." _Wonderful,_ thought Akakios with no little sarcasm. _Like people stroll about the streets of Haven with farm-gear in tow. I don't know how to make things invisible. But—wait! I can exaggerate it a little bit; disguise it somewhat like I did my hair. Make it look like a walking stick; they're in fashion. And my clothes under my cloak are just rich enough to pull it off. _"It came all the way from Seejay" the weapons dealer was saying. "They have warriors there who put on ceremonial battles with those things. You seem to catch on quick."

"It's still the oddest thing I've ever laid eyes on."

"But you like it, right?"

"I like it."

"Then you'll be willing to pay forty for it?"

Akakios fixed the weapons dealer with a cold stare. "I don't like it that much, old man."

And so it was that Akakios left in good cheer with a new purchase, and only slightly lighter pockets. But one little thing niggled at the back of his thoughts. Egon was a man who dealt with some of Haven's most dangerous criminals, parties responsible for messes it often took the Guard plus several Heralds to clean up, if they even could. One young thug grabbing his tunic and shouting in his face must be insignificant compared to the types he had to handle on a daily basis.

So why had he seemed so frightened by Akakios? He just couldn't understand it.

But what did it matter, anyway? He finally had the weapon he wanted, strange as it looked, and now he could begin the spell. Akakios shrugged and continued on his way with a jaunty little whistle.

Behind him, in the shop just off of Exile's Road, Egon rubbed at his arms, shivering with reaction. That boy—his eyes had _glowed_! Bright red, his irises had flamed scarlet like the very Hellfires themselves…

Perhaps he was growing too old for this line of work.

o.o.o.o.o

It was a good thing he had taken the time to bargain down the weapons dealer, Akakios reflected to himself some time later.

_I had no idea garnets cost so much, even one this size. I thought they called them _semiprecious_ stones for a reason. Good thing my primary focus-stone isn't diamond or ruby. I'd have to take on jobs again, or steal it. And if I were caught doing either one—well, my aunt would probably put me under house arrest and I'd have to wait even longer to perform this Working._

Akakios had to admit that the garnet was a fine one; he couldn't complain he hadn't gotten his money's worth. It was a huge specimen, about the size of the circle he could make with his thumb and forefinger. Its multi-faceted sides did not sparkle in the same way a costly ruby would have; but instead seemed to shiver with a translucent red.

_I finally have my focus stone now, as well as a weapon. The equations check out, and I've simulated every part of the spell barring that last, critical part. Time to work my sorcery._

His aunt insisted that the townhouse be kept spic and span, from the attic to the basement, but the servants could only concentrate on one level at time. This meant that the basement could serve as a workroom five days out of every seven, so long as he cleaned up after himself, and barring his aunt ever hiring a maid with Mage talent enough to sense the shields he'd set on floor, ceiling, and every wall. He'd spent the last year building up the magical protections on this place; anything that happened _would_ be contained inside the basement, or he'd have his own hide for the consequences.

With a muffled grunt, Akakios pushed the last traveling chest out of the way. He took a moment to rub the kinks out of his shoulders, and then crossed the floor to the carved cherrywood table left standing off to the side of the workspace. He visually assessed each item on the table: focus stone, weapon, a large brazier and coal. No further implements would be needed, as the workroom preparations had already been completed. Much of today's Working would require little more than his Gift; the channeling and directing of vast amounts of energy.

_Good thing I faked illness; I can stretch it out a se'nnight if I need the extra time to recuperate._

First came the focus stone; Akakios had filched an old copper chain from which to hang the garnet; this he fastened around his neck. One spoken word and the floor's surface began to glow: lines of yellowed white formed the familiar shape of a compass rose. The geometric shapes of collectors, refractors, and reflectors set into the floor were revealed in burning greens, oranges, and reds. With his Mage Sight, Akakios watched as the basement room was revealed as a location suitable for a powerful Working. Not even his Master knew he had designed this place. The man had seemed apprehensive enough about the progress his _knew_ his apprentice was making; no doubt the old bat'd have a coronary were he to discover Akakios's efforts to hone his skills on his own.

Akakios dragged the brazier into the center of the compass rose. He made a few adjustments in positioning the item, and then with an easy flick of his power set the coal to burning with a cheerful blaze. Next came the weapon; grasping the shaft close to the blade, he lowered it slowly down into the coals. Closing his physical eyes while simultaneously expanding his Mage Sight, Akakios envisioned the fire's energy moving up along the metal shaft, spreading to the very edge of the blade. His palm and the pads of his fingers began to warm, and Akakios let go. He opened his eyes.

Good. The weapon remained standing erect in the center of the brazier, and the metal itself was beginning to glow a warm red. The iron could turn molten, but the weapon would keep its form.

Akakios nodded in satisfaction. This was the only alternative to crafting a weapon from scratch, and Akakios was no blacksmith. Best to begin with a weapon already forged, so long as his improvisation worked.

Now came the hard part.

Akakios backed away from the brazier and took North position on the compass rose. He commenced his relaxation exercises, quickly falling into a shallow trance. His eyes remained open as he used his Mage Sight to see the energy fields overlaying the physical world. Even now, threads of power were wrapping themselves about the scythe, drawn by the seed of energy he had planted within the iron blade. One thread was connected to Akakios himself; it was through this line of power that he would work his will on the weapon, molding it into the magical tool he desired.

_A weapon to gather power, a weapon to direct power. Make this weapon into a conduit for my power, make it enhance my energies._

The metal turned white-hot, then blue. The energies coursing through it were reforming the matter, molding it to the young mage's specifications. His will, his energies flowed through to imprint each and every molecule.

But it wasn't enough, not for Akakios. This was to be a weapon for the ages, a weapon that did not need to feed solely upon the reserves of its owner. It must be able to draw upon the masterless energy fields all around it, and for that it needed its own power. Which meant that Akakios needed even more energy.

The nearby nodes were still weak, due to the Mage Storms of several years ago, as well as the constant drain on them by the Palace mages and their new Collegium. Only blood-energy could compensate, but there was a slight problem: Akakios had no sacrifice to offer, nor was he ready to offer one up. Not yet at least, he told himself. For now Akakios was willing to take that particular aspect of his magical education one step at a time.

But that had still left him with a dilemma so far as power sources were concerned. He'd obsessed over the matter night and day, until one day the upstairs maid had to be sent to bed with a head cold. And then the answer had sprung upon him, so obvious once he saw it.

There were plenty of injured and ill people in Haven already; why invoke more suffering through a blood sacrifice? All that life energy spilled out, all shamefully going to waste. Why not put it to good use?

Which was exactly what this mage was going to do. Making certain that he was properly grounded and centered, Akakios expanded his awareness, thinning the shields around the workroom just enough so that he could examine the energy-lines running through Haven, searching for those tinged with blood.

Exile's Gate was a prime target; no surprise about that. But the energy-threads were spread out too thinly, and the power hardly amounted to what one would find in a similar urban area outside of Valdemar. _Those Heralds do indeed do some good, though they can hardly solve everything._

Some place more concentrated; more potent in acute physical suffering was what Akakios was looking for. In other words, a House of Healing. There were several in the capital city, but the largest by far was near the Palace. And if Akakios was smart and very, very cautious, he just might be able to get away with what he was about to do, with not a single Herald, Healer or Mage any the wiser.

One dying human released a great deal of potent energy; several injured and wounded, if not dying, patients gathered together in a matrix of power would produce just as much energy.

Akakios stretched out a mental hand and gathered together the strands of blood-dark power. He deftly wove them into a single line, directing the energy flow back through his own channels to be concentrated within the crystalline structure of his focus stone. And from there to the weapon itself.

He breathed out slowly in relief; the hard part was done, and he had not been caught. Now all he had to do was wait until the scythe had been imbued with enough energy, and then cut off the power supply. The key spell had already been set around the weapon; once sufficient energy had built up, the weapon's own energy field would form and it would be able to access any leyline within a local radius. He could relax.

It was at this precise moment that all of his careful preparations fell apart.

_What in the nine hells?_

The power line from the House of Healing to himself was fading, and with it the energy directed toward the scythe. Akakios frowned. He could only guess that the Healers had noticed that energy drifting away, and had put their own Gifts into play in reaction. But this was not too large of a problem; only a little more energy was needed, and with one strong pull he could obtain the rest without the Healers catching on. He reached out once more and began to _tug_…

And grabbed something entirely unexpected.

_W-what?_

Too much power, too much energy ripping through his channels, searing them with agony. He tried to let go, but the blood-energy held him in that location. He then tried tugging some of the power away with him, hoping it would detach from the rest, but the power balked as though it had built-in resistance to a foreign presence.

Akakios gritted his teeth, feeling his physical self fall forward to land hard on the basement floor. He lifted up, bracing himself forward on his hands, and fought back with all the power in his magical reserves.

_What do I do? What do I do, dammit? Think, Akakios, think! _Then it hit him._ That demon-summoning spell you were so fascinated by, you worked on the theoretical structure. You have to Summon a demon—that means first reaching through to the Abyssal Plane with your own magic, because demons need your power, or that of your sacrifice, to take corporeal form here in the physical world. Punch through to that realm with your magic—and the creatures there take hold. Then shut the doorway closed. And _you_ don't need to bother with coercion or binding spells because you're not looking to hire a demon, anyway._

_It's crazy, but it just might work!_

Head pounding, mental channels on fire, Akakios forced his mind and his power into the structure he needed. _Power at least is no problem here. I can't get it to let go of me!_ Body tensed, mage senses tested to the limits, he painfully forced that rampant energy into the direction _he_ commanded.

Grudgingly, it complied. The mage-lit diagrams of the basement floor flared, and then there was a sudden, quick disorientation of both time and space as Akakios felt the workroom energy shields buckle and shift. With his Mage Sight, he could see—something, right in front of him, before the brazier. Almost like an empty doorway into a place where all was chaos and an endless, fearsome hunger. Something within it latched on to the excess power holding Akakios in thrall and pulled it away. Akakios waited until the foreign power let go of him to slip into the other realm, and then he let the spell disintegrate. With a flash, the doorway disappeared, the glowing diagram faded back into the floor, and everything had returned to normal.

Akakios let out a deep sigh, and felt himself collapse back on the floor. He remained there for several breaths as the pain in his head receded somewhat, thoughts racing through his brain.

_I-what happened? I know that I touched something I shouldn't have, but—oh, I hurt. _A new thought occurred to him, and he forced himself to his feet. _My weapon! Is it—did it work, at least?_

To his relief, the scythe was still there, standing straight and tall in the middle of the brazier. Over the next few breaths, it faded from white to red, and then the glow disappeared altogether. When he deemed it safe to touch, Akakios lifted the weapon out of the brazier, and then lowered it until its end clanged against the basement floor. Cautiously, using both his eyes and still-sore magical senses, he inspected the still-warm weapon.

_Something happened, that's for sure. Just look at it._ Indeed, the color had changed: the weapon was now a uniform dark, dark red—almost black—from the tip of the blade to where the end of the long pole rested on the floor. There was a glimmer of _otherness_ about it, too, and when Akakios tightened his grip, he thought he felt the shaft resonate with its own power, in tune with his own.

_But I can't experiment with it tonight—ow, my head—my channels sustained serious damage, and my reserves are almost entirely depleted. I doubt I'll be able to light a candle for the rest of the week, and I'll be damned if I move everything in this basement back to where it's supposed to be until I've had a good night's sleep._

This resolve firmly in mind, Akakios clenched the weapon and snuck upstairs to his room. There, with a torpor brought on by his exhausted state, he performed his nightly ablutions, undressed, and crawled under the bedclothes after propping the scythe up against the wardrobe door. But he found himself unable to fall asleep immediately, and spent several minutes staring at the weapon in the flames provided by the one remaining lit candle.

"What should I call you, anyway?" he mumbled sleepily. The candlelight picked out the scarlet and crimson highlights of the dark metal. "Like blood," he muttered to himself. "Red like blood. Made of blood-magic, red. Red…scythe."

_Yes, Redscythe._

The candle blew itself out a few minutes later, but Akakios was already fast asleep.

o.o.o.o.o

In the Queen's Palace, in the heart of Valdemar's capitol, there was someone who was not quietly asleep in bed. Several someones, in fact, but the person who had called the unofficial meeting was none other than Herald Mage and former Heir to the Throne, Lady Elspeth herself, recently returned from an ambassadorial journey to Shonar.

"So?" she said to the gathered group. "What the hells _was _that earlier this evening?"

"Unfortunately, none of us were able to find out," said her spouse, Tayledras scout Darkwind. "I wasn't able to trace the interference back, either."

_:Chosen: _That was Gwena, Elspeth's Companion and the herd's second Groveborn. _:We investigated the matter ourselves, and you were right. Someone's definitely been tampering.:_

"But how?" the Herald-Mage wondered aloud for the others' benefit. "The Palace Heartstone is keyed to approved individual mages. It should lock out anyone else."

"Orrr the backlash could frrry them," suggested Treyvan, who was included among the hastily-assembled group. "Perrrhapss the rreasson we could not find the intrrruderr isss becaussse he iss not longerrr among the living?" The gryphon snapped his beak shut with a clack and regarded the room with what, in a human, could be considered an uplifted brow.

Another member of the group, a girl of about sixteen wearing Grays, shook her head in negation. "I don't think so," she told the gryphon. "Herald Elspeth was helping me run through a drill at the time, and I had to access the Heartstone. I was drawing on its power when I felt that other person grab at it. But whoever it was, they didn't just disappear. I felt something else."

Darkwind frowned. "What did you feel?"

The trainee shook her head. "It was some kind of spell, that I know." She paused for a moment. "And it felt _dark_."

"What do you mean, darrrk?" This came from Hydona, Treyvan's mate. The girl hesitated, and Elspeth stepped forward put a hand on her shoulder.

"It's all right, Taika," she said gently. "How was the spell dark?"

The trainee shrugged. "Just…dark. Powerful. Like a shadow crept out into this world from someplace else. And that's _all_."

Elspeth had a thought. _:Gwena:_

_:Yes, sweeting:_

_:A shadow creeping out into Valdemar…does this seem to you like the feelings some of the Foreseers and Companions were experiencing earlier:_

A mental shrug. _:It could be, or it couldn't. What we felt before seemed more like it was coming from outside Valdemar. That doesn't mean this isn't related; Shanta in particular feels wrought-up about this and she's usually so calm. But she's been so uneasy lately, in general. In other words, dearheart, we're stumped.:_

Elspeth turned back to her own group in the Palace. "Do any of you have any ideas where this could have come from?" Everyone shook their heads in shared bafflement. "Wonderful. Well, the Companions are as mystified about this as we are."

She sighed and stretched her muscles a little. "The only action I can think of taking right now is vigilance, plain and simple. We mages should keep an eye out for anything unusual in the city, in case our magician is working locally, and we'll alert the Guard to step up their watch for unusual signs. I'll go tell the Queen; someone tampering with the Heartstone is serious enough to warrant her immediate knowledge."

"I'll also send a notice by teleson to the Vales," Darkwind added. "If someone's going around interfering with Heartstones, they should be aware, too."

"And mention it to Captain Kerrrowyn, asss well," Treyvan said. "Herrr Skybolts arrre familiarrr with magesss and how to handle them. If thisss originated frrrom Haven, they could help with the cssity invesssitgation."

Elspeth grinned. "No need, Treyvan. I told her the minute Taika and I sensed something amiss." She gave everyone an encouraging nod. "Well, that's all that we can really do right now. Tomorrow we mages will start investigating further. I'll help the first group two candlemarks past sunrise."

"Aren't you attending that meeting of the Healers' Circle then?" Darkwind asked.

Elspeth shook her head. "No, they cancelled it. Apparently some of the patients starting showing unusual symptoms right before the Heartstone incident. Nothing too bad, but the Healers are worried and want keep a close eye on the patients all day tomorrow. So I'll be free to help investigate."

Darkwind nodded. "I have no class to teach at that time, so I'll be joining y—"

Everyone jumped as a crash of thunder shook the room.

"Hellfires and damnation," Elspeth muttered. "That's a magicked storm, all right. Not only has someone been tampering, but that magic's definitely been put to use, too."

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: Spot the Fiddler Fair and Family Guy references! (Hint: mafia and "bunnies")

Author talkback! (Sorry for getting back to you so late)

Cat McDougall: The Adept's reasons for taking Akakios on in the first place will be shown later on. My reasoning being, even the nastiest of blood-mages will put up with crap from a teenager with an attitude problem if the rewards are great enough. And the Master isn't all that he appears…but don't worry; I won't take as long to explain stuff as "Invasion" seems to be doing right now (ah, cheesy sci-fi…).

Hiro No Tsuki: Thanks! Already this story looks like it's going to turn out a lot longer and more complex than I'd originally envisioned. I appreciate the encouragement, as it keeps me going.

FrequencyQueen: Thank you, too! Ever read L.J. Smith's Night World series? Lots of shapeshifting there, especially in Black Dawn and Witchlight. I was interested in seeing what would happen if two sentient beings ended up being caught in a Changecircle. There will be indication of even greater consequences later on. (Consequences being spelled A-N-G-S-T, of course! This _is_ an ML fanfic, after all.)


	6. Chapter 6: The Mirror

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 6: The Mirror

It was a beautiful spring day in the village. The market was bustling; the shop doors were flung open, and everywhere were the sounds of children playing, wives haggling, and merchants calling out their wares.

Myndira sighed longingly as she stood before the shop window. _That's the most beautiful dress I think I've ever seen._ Never mind it was plain muslin, and not the silks and fine linens she'd seen on the highborn Blues as they dashed through the Collegium corridors on their way out to a night on the town. 'Dira's breath misted the glass, and she drew a haphazard figure through the patch of fog.

She had never really worn dresses before, if one didn't count her mother's old satins and silks, stored in the townhouse attic. What fun times she'd had as a child, playing with the neighbor's daughter at dress-up and striking poses in front of the tarnished old full-length mirror! But then as she'd gotten older, her parents had grown less tolerant of such games. And the last time she'd played, she'd been a guilty ten-year-old, sneaking up into the attic just one more time. And her mother had caught her. Havens above, she'd been mad—

_:Throw the stick! Throw the stick throw the stick throw the stick throw the stick:_

'Dira turned around and grinned at the sight before her. One could always count on dogs to break one out of an introspective mood. The dog in question was a flop-eared, shaggy member of its species, and was at the moment trying to get the attention of its master, a pimple-faced teenager apparently bumbling his way through conversation with a pretty local girl.

_:Woof a bit.: _she sent to the impatiently bouncing dog. _:Go to female-human-person, wag your tail. Look friendly, offer your paw.: _The dog sent back a mystified response, but followed her suggestion. As 'Dira had anticipated, the village girl was delighted at the puppy's antics, and began cooing over both the dog and his master, scratching the shaggy animal behind its ears and urging the young man to throw the stick for the creature.

_The animals here have accepted me, even seemed to have formed a pact to look after me. Every time I leave the signal tower for the village, I can sense at least two wolves trailing protectively after me, as though I were a high-ranking member of their pack. I suppose that what they say about country folk being friendlier than city people applies to the animals, too!_

She'd also heard that these rural villages tended to be more reclusive, too, and less tolerant of outsiders' strange ways. On the other hand, she'd also heard that people far in the country sometimes developed their own, eccentric ways. She simply desired to find a place where she could fit in.

_The people here seem to have accepted me, though. I'm the new guardian of the signal tower, part of a prestigious line in their estimation. So I suppose they already think of me as one of their own. _

"Heyla, 'Dira! Whatcha looking at there?" Myndira looked up and smiled to see the burly, middle-aged man detach himself from a knot of quarreling farmers and come striding up to her.

"Good afternoon, Manley. I was just—"

"Looking at a dress, I see." The village handyman nodded sagely at this example of typical feminine behavior. "Good to know there's a woman in there, with all the work you're doing at the signal tower. Not that you're not feminine," he rushed to say as he caught sight of Myndira's expression. "You've just been working so hard making repairs on the tower, fixing the place up all by yourself—"

'Dira held up a hand, laughing. "Don't worry, Manley, I know what you're saying." She lifted her arm and flexed it. "I've put on some muscle since coming here, true, but I hear you country men like your women strong!" Both she and Manley laughed. "But I'm hardly doing it alone, not with Ilona showing me the ropes and you helping out with whatever requires more expertise than swinging a hammer."

"That's what I wanted to talk with you about, 'Dira. Seems a trader just came in with those parts for your kitchen. If it's all right with you, I can come on up to the tower tomorrow morning and start working on the indoor pump."

"Really? I'd _love_ not to have to walk back and forth to the well every time I need to wash dishes or take a bath or anything. The sooner you can install the pipes, the better!"

"Thought you might say that," Manley grinned. "You ladies do love your conveniences, don't you?" He dodged Myndira's mock punch and strode away. "I'll be there a candlemark past sunrise," he called back over his shoulder.

'Dira waved good-bye, and turned back to stare at the dress in the shop window. It had a modestly high neck, but was at the same time graceful and feminine, with just enough lace at the hems and sleeves to look fanciful without overdoing it. She plucked at the gray sleeve of her loose tunic. _Would—would I look silly in that? It's not at all revealing, and I _think_ I could pull off the figure…_

"So why don't you just buy it, then?" an amused voice spoke into her ear. 'Dira jumped about five feet off the cobblestones and spun around.

"Ilona! Gods, it's a good thing you're a Healer, because I just about had a heart attack!"

"You know, I didn't think you were the type," Ilona said, ignoring Myndira's indignation. "You don't seem at all frilly or missish, and whatever time you don't spend fixing up that old tumbleshack of a tower, you always seem to be entrenched in those musty old tomes of yours." She grinned. "But now I see that you're just as susceptible to a pretty dress as the rest of us." The Healer pushed 'Dira through the shop's door. "Tell you what. I'll make it my gift to you. Get you some nice green ribbons to match the dress, too; they'll go wonderfully with that chestnut hair and eyes of yours. I know you'll probably have to put most of your pocket money into that tower, anyhow."

"But I couldn't," 'Dira protested, pushing her lenses further up the bridge of her nose. "It's nice of you to offer, but—"

Ilona held up a hand, cutting off further argument. "Don't be ridiculous. Hasn't anyone ever told you never to argue with a Healer? You'll never win, and that's a fact! And besides," she continued, placing a motherly arm around the younger woman, "I haven't any young lady of my own to fuss over. Now, let's go and see about having that dress fitted for you, and then I'm treating you to a late lunch at the inn. And that's final."

'Dira gave up any further attempt to reason with the older woman. She blushed. "Thank you, Ilona. I suppose I'm just not used to being fussed over like this, I guess."

"Well, you can start getting used to it," the Healer said, and tugged 'Dira further into the shop.

o.o.o.o.o

A candlemark later found the two women finishing a course of mincemeat pies and mild ale at the tavern's front room. Healer Ilona stared at the younger woman with a mingling of respect and awe.

"Havens! I don't think that I've ever seen anyone put away as much food in one sitting as you, youngling."

Myndira looked up from her plate with a slightly embarrassed expression. "It's only my third serving," she said sheepishly.

"I won't be surprised if you'll have to roll yourself home after a meal like that. If you're not careful, you won't be able to fit into that new dress of yours."

"About that, thank you again—"

Ilona waved away 'Dira's gratitude and leaned forward across the wooden table with a mischievous expression. "You know, with meals like these, you're lucky you like such baggy clothes! And here I was worrying about having to fatten you up on good, old fashioned country cooking."

'Dira chuckled. "I'm afraid I have to tell you that I'm bony as can be. Though all the work to be done at the tower has put some muscle on me, like I was telling Manley earlier."

"Hmm. And I was coming up with all kinds of excuses why you didn't want the seamstress to fit that dress to you. Poor girl had to do it by guesswork."

Myndira shrugged. "I don't much like being poked and prodded with all those needles and pins." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "To be honest, I'm not much of one for shopping, though I do enjoy owning pretty things like that. But truly, I'm a scholar at heart. "

Ilona settled back into her seat. "And how is your research coming along, then? What are you working on?"

Now _this_ was a topic Myndira could delve into with great zeal! She outlined her most recent paper for the interested Healer, and then brought her up to date on her latest project. "Since I've unwittingly found myself proud owner of a signal tower, I've recently taken an interest in the role that particular form of communication has played in Valdemaran history. Did you know that this particular tower was originally built as a Guard base against any potential Pelagirs threat—including the Tayledras?"

"That wouldn't particularly surprise me." Ilona took a long sip of ale from her mug. "Until quite recently, people came up with the most fanciful tales about the Hawkbrothers. And to think that these days some of them have helped start a new Collegium at Haven for mages."

"I had one as a teacher, though not a mage. She helped train my animal mindspeech."

"Ah, yes. You did mention that. It's quite a useful Gift here in the country."

Myndira sighed. "You have no idea how I've come to rely on it for the little things—the animals warn you about coming weather, can be your eyes and ears if you need to know what's going on elsewhere. And gods, they're loyal."

"Like family?"

'Dira snorted. "I suppose."

"And where's your family, child?"

This was a topic Myndira wanted dearly to avoid. "Back in Haven; what's left of the family, anyhow. My father passed away while I was studying at the Collegium, so my mother's keeping herself busy with her work at the House of Healing."

Ilona raised a brow. "So your mother's a Healer?"

"I suppose. She has a weak Gift, but is a medicinal expert. Before father died, though, she spent much of her time as his hostess, improving his standing among the other minor lords. She stills moves around quite a bit in that social set. Mother…cares a great deal about appearances, you see."

Ilona traced the rim of her mug with her index finger, round and round. "I'll admit that when you first arrived, I thought you were on your own. Up to now, you haven't mentioned your family, nor have I seen you receive any correspondence. I simply assumed they had passed away."

"Hmmph. Other way around; I might as well be dead to _them_."

The Healer looked up sharply at the younger woman's bitter tone. "What do you mean, 'Dira?"

Myndira grabbed for her mug and quickly gulped down some ale. She hadn't meant to say that last bit out loud. Gathering her composure, she took a deep breath. "You see, the way it is—is that before I came here, I was disinherited. By my mother." When Ilona made to ask the inevitable question, 'Dira held up a forestalling hand. "I simply made a decision she did not like, and as I did not wish to dishonor the family, I found myself in a bind. When I learned of the provision left to me in my uncle's will, I knew I had found a way to solve my problems. Historians don't earn much, you see, unless they make a name for themselves as scholarly experts or write the type of story-novels loved by Bards and incurable romantics." She sat up straight in her chair. "But I have a place to live now, and enough money of my own to fix up the tower and get me by until I'm back on my feet again."

"You have more than that," Ilona added, and it was Myndira's turn to arch a brow.

"You have friends," the Healer clarified, and gave 'Dira a wide, true smile. "And a new dress. You can't stay locked up in the tower with your musty books, and only getting out to speak with your animals and crusty old village Healers and handymen. What about the village boys, hmm?"

'Dira turned bright red. "I don't think—"

"Don't be ridiculous, child! Why else would I insist you get such a fetching dress? You'll look wonderful in it, soon as you meet someone who provides the right occasion."

o.o.o.o.o

Later that night, 'Dira was settling herself into the claw-footed bathtub when the dress caught her eye. The candlelight picked out the muslin's sprigged pattern of dark green where it was spread out against the bed's worn coverlet.

'Dira gave in to the impulse. She quickly scrubbed herself clean, and climbed out of the tub. She put on the necessary undergarments and slid the garment over her head, the fabric floating down to gently settle against her damp skin. After setting her lenses back on her nose, she pulled her hair back with a green ribbon and then crossed the room to the dilapidated vanity. Opening the top drawer, she lifted out a leather bag and emptied its contents into the middle of her palm.

_Grandfather gave me this when I was sixteen, a legal adult. He said that when he saw this at the jewelers, he knew exactly which young lady he had to give this to. Oh, grandfather…_

The gold choker easily clasped behind her neck. Myndira fingered the emerald at her throat, and then walked over to the old mirror.

_Just like the mirror the neighbor's daughter and I used to pose in front of. Except not as tarnished, surprised as I am that there's actually something in this tower that's not falling apart!_

She stood in front of the looking glass. And stared at her reflection, at the chestnut hair that was growing out, the pale skin, the wide brown eyes behind two squares of glass. And at the soft, glowing emerald, flowing over her body and glistening at the hollow of her throat.

_I look—normal._

o.o.o.o.o

7


	7. Chapter 7: The Messenger

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 7: The Messenger

By late spring, the two had settled into a daily routine. Torren and Rigan awakened a candlemark before each dawn and commenced early-morning inspections of the Lakeside Inn. Barring any immediate crisis involving guests, staff, building or—Havens forbid—plumbing—they headed down to the stables. Rigan saddled their new mare with the help of a bleary-eyed stable boy—one of the recent hirelings—and would be riding out of Westridge's town gates by the time dawn's first pink rays crept over the horizon.

Once safely out of the town proper, Rigan would give the mare her head until they came upon the first heavily-forested area. The mare trotted along a half-forgotten, narrow hunting-path through the woods until they arrived at a now-familiar clearing. There Rigan would tie the mare's bridle to a tree, leaving her to crop lazily at the sparse grass while he crossed to the other end of the clearing, and let Torren take over. Torren then would spend the rest of the early morning flying over the countryside and exercising his hunting skills.

Surprisingly, Rigan often found himself enjoying this time spent with Torren, quite possibly because it was often the only time of day the two could spend by themselves. The tenor of their lives had changed drastically since they had arrived in Westridge, and the majority of their time was spent tending to the affairs of the inn.

Once Torren completed his flight, he and Rigan returned to the clearing and headed back to the inn. Rigan then began his late-morning rounds of the inn, making certain that each area, from stable to kitchen, was running smoothly and that each member of the staff was performing his or her duties efficiently and well.

The middle of day was set aside for going over the inn's accounts and finances. The first few weeks had been devoted to taking account of the supplies needed to run the inn, down to the last grain of wheat that passed through the kitchen. Once Rigan figured out how much money was required to keep the inn going on a weekly basis, and then estimated how much help they would need to hire at what pay, he was able to decide the nightly rates for overnight guests and gauge how the tavern meals should be priced.

Rigan's current major project centered on the contracts Paki and Ramla's mother had entered into with the local suppliers. Several afternoons were devoted to hard bargaining sessions with these merchants and farmers, and he often returned to the inn late in the day, tired but proudly clutching a brand-new or reinstated contract containing several provisions in the inn's favor. Under Rigan's management, the inn was on its way to regaining its status as a growing, thriving business within Westridge.

Then came time to make the evening rounds and settle any of the guests' various complaints. Twice every week, 'Torrigan' would call together a meeting of Paki (still serving as main cook), the head groom, and the housekeeper to review the inn's performance and make suggestions for any future ideas or plans.

And in between all of these scheduled duties were the myriad tasks and minor complaints requiring 'Torrigan's' immediate presence and counsel. Paki in particular worked diligently and was a great aid and help to Rigan, but the teenager did not hesitate to admit that he was out of his depth when it came to actually _running_ the inn. The young man depended entirely upon his new friend to make certain his and Ramla's only inheritance would survive and flourish.

The pressure on Rigan was immense, but he thrived on it. After all, it was one thing to proud of one's work as a simple hireling; but accepting responsibility for a business gave one a sense of personal accomplishment when it did well. Rigan didn't mind that he was only the innkeeper, and not the actual owner of the Lakeside Inn. He even had high hopes that he would one day help Paki expand the business. Rigan collapsed into bed every night exhausted and overworked, but satisfied.

So involved was he in managing the inn that he sometimes forgot his own—unique—situation. This pulled him out of his former depression, but had other consequences as well.

o.o.o.o.o

The late spring morning dawned clear and bright, a sign of the rapidly approaching summer. In these early candlemarks, the breeze remained cool and refreshing, but Rigan knew that by late morning the sun would turn hot and oppressive.

He was in a good mood as he swung down from the mare's saddle to the long meadow grass. Once he had hitched the horse to a nearby tree, he crossed to the other end of the clearing and turned control over to Torren. The mare at first had been very much startled by this, but now was quite used to the situation. She ignored the metamorphosis occurring not twenty paces away and concentrated instead on the nice bunch of sweetgrass just next to her hooves.

"Ahh…" Torren sighed from within his throat as he stretched his limbs out in relief. As always, it took several moments for the change to be complete. Tendons stretched and crackled; fingers retracted and talons extended in their place. Two brown-feathered wings snapped out on either side as the gryphon flexed his pectoral muscles. Fierce, yellow eyes blinked in the dawn sunlight and a hooked beak parted in an immense yawn, and then snapped shut with a resonant _clack_.

_:So, are we very hungry this morning, old bird :_

"Not verrry much," Torren responded aloud. "You did consssume a grrreat deal of food at dinnerrr lassst night. Perrrhapsss a rrrelaxing flight overrr the shorrreline, and then maybe a couple of harrresss?"

_:Sounds like a plan to me.:_

Torren coasted with the wind along the shore of Lake Evendim, away from Westridge. Here and there the cliffs were dotted with the tiny villages populated by Evendim fisherfolk. A flock of lakebirds joined them for a short while before turning out to the water to hunt for fish.

After a moment's quick conferment, Torren and Rigan decided to follow. Turning westward from the mounting sun, they made their way over the blue-green water. Neither worried about being recognized by the fishermen plying their trade in their wooden boats. And even if a particularly sharp-sighted fellow picked out their shape, well, at their height they wouldn't look much different from an unusually large hawk.

The fishermen didn't venture too far from shore; Lake Evendim was shallow for a certain distance, and then the bottom abruptly gave way to much greater depths. The local villages, and even Westridge, abounded with superstitions regarding the mysterious creatures which made their home in the middle of the lake. Torren was fascinated by tales of these "Wave-Wise," and became ecstatic whenever he caught a sleek form jumping out of the water and then splash down again. He was eager to investigate these legendary creatures further, but for Rigan's time-consuming duties at the inn.

As soon as they had passed the fishing boat furthest out, Torren winged his way up to another thermal, and turned northward. The two followed a curving path back to shore and continued further east until they were flying over deep forest. This was part of their usual route; along the way Torren would hunt for breakfast and then leisurely make his way back to the clearing.

The sun was climbing steadily now. Below them stretched league upon league of dense forest, undifferentiated but for the single dirt road winding its way through the ancient trees below.

_:Huh. Looks like a traveler headed for Westridge.:_

Few travelers traveled this road to Westridge; most preferred to head through Deercreek and Zoe, and then make their way up along the coastal road. Only the occasional trader would come from this direction, usually on their way from Forst Reach. Rigan wondered who could be traveling this way alone. Bandits were scarce here, but there was a reason for that these days…

Rigan's curiosity transferred itself to Torren, and the gryphon changed his flight path to match the direction of the road. Torren descended just low enough to get a good look without worrying about being identified.

_:White horse…white clothing, too. A Herald! Wonder what he's doing here…:_

"Perrrhapsss on Cirrrcuit?" Torren fought the wind a bit, so as not to overshoot the rider below.

_:Maybe. I wonder if he's heading for the fishing villages? I hear that's a tough Circuit, if he is. Take us back up: _Rigan told Torren. _:I doubt we'll learn anything interesting, and I don't want the Companion to sense us if we stay any lon--:_ Rigan was stopped short by Torren's sudden tenseness.

_:Therrre'sss sssomething down therrre: _Torren sent excitedly.

Rigan looked down through Torren's eyes. He couldn't see anything unusual, but became aware of a vague, growing sense of unease. The Herald below felt it too, for his Companion had stopped in the middle of the road and was looking about nervously. Rigan saw the Herald remove an object from his back, and assumed it to be a weapon of some sort, perhaps a bow. And just in time because—

Two gray shapes jumped onto the path in front of the Herald. The Companion turned to gallop in the opposite direction, but was blocked as three more shapes detached themselves from the forest to join the others. The Herald was blocked on all sides now, and had no choice but to fight back.

_:Changewolves: _both Torren and Rigan realized at the same time.

The pair had run into Changewolves a time or two, in the course of their travels. Ungainly creatures, the 'wolves were changebeasts spawned from the Mage Storms. Twisted in shape, the creatures below would have knotted limbs, clawed paws, tufted and mangy fur, and curved fangs as long as a grown man's index finger. A part of Rigan froze in anxious fear for the Herald below.

The Companion reared, pawing the air with its forehooves as the Herald took aim with his bow. A small, narrow object—an arrow—darted forth toward one of the creatures. The 'wolf fell forward to lie still on the ground, but the other four continued to close in. One lunged for the Companion and was kicked for its trouble, but the other three dodged the hooves and leapt for the Herald.

_His bow isn't going to do him any good now._

The Herald seemed to realize this, for now Torren and Rigan could see sun flash on metal at the Herald beat the Changewolves off with his blade.

_But he still hasn't much of a chance, not with a pack of them! _Even as Rigan thought this, two more 'wolves joined their brethren.

"We mussst help him!"

_:What: _Rigan was startled out of his half-paralyzed observation of the scene below. The gryphon was half-gone in battle rage, his feathers mantling and talons flexing in the empty air.

"He hasssn't a chancsse, and you know it! We _mussst_ help him!"

_:I suppose--: _Now that his reverie was broken, Rigan shared Torren's compassion for the Herald battling below. _Changewolves are tough; maybe we could provide a distraction and get him out of there…_

But Torren took Rigan's silence as a disagreement, and the gryphon's temper snapped.

"Dammit Rrrigan!" the gryphon hissed with unusual vehemence. "That Herrrald _needsss_ usss, and we'rrre going to help him. I may only contrrrol thisss body a candlemarrrk at a time thessse daysss, and I didn't arrrgue—you need yourrr worrrk at the inn, and it'sss worrrth it to sssee you ssstop mooning arrround like a motherrrlessss nessstling. It might not be worrrth anything to you with all yourrr plansss and ambitionsss, but _otherrr_ people arrre sssufferrring too. And _I'm _in contrrrol now, and we'rrre _going _to help that man below, _whetherrr you like it or not!_"

And with that speech, the gryphon dived down, taking a stunned and speechless Rigan with him.

_Good gods, what brought _that _on?_

But he had little time to ruminate on Torren's outburst. Wings tight against his body, wind plastering his feathers against his skin, the gryphon swooped down on the Changewolf closest to the Herald, talons outstretched. One of the 'wolves looked up, suddenly aware that there was large predator bearing down on it from above. But it had no time to dodge Torren's attack; the gryphon delivered a vicious swipe before snapping his wings out and beginning a steep climb, the 'wolf's yelp of pain echoing in his ears. Blood coated the gryphon's talons.

At the peak of their climb, Torren and Rigan looked down once more: from here, they could see the eviscerated Changewolf sprawled on the ground, its blood and innards spilling out from its belly onto the surrounding ground. But the other 'wolves, too intent on their immediate prey, took no notice of the attack on their pack mate.

_:Dammit: _Rigan cursed. _: Torren--:_

He took stock of the gryphon's condition and realized he shouldn't have bothered. Torren gave a raptorial scream of anger and curved into a fast descent.

The gryphon didn't bother with hit-and-run tactics this time; battle rage was upon him fully now. He dived down with a demon-like screech, landing upon his prey and snapping its spine in two with a clap of his powerful beak. Torren savored the victory for a split second, and then whipped his head around to assess the Herald's predicament.

Both the Herald and his Companion were holding their own for the moment: the Companion lashing out with wicked hooves; her Herald slashing about him with his sword. But the Changewolves were getting closer with each snap of their jaws, and the duo was tiring.

Torren tensed his leg muscles under him, and then leapt from his position atop the dying 'wolf, talons extended. Using his wings to propel him forward, Torren crashed into a Changewolf mid-lunge, forcing him to the ground. They landed hard, Torren twisting his body to pin the 'wolf under him. The 'wolf struggled to escape, but the gryphon clamped his beak down through the beast's hide, trying to get at what vitals he could. Another wolf, come to aid his pack mate, bit at Torren's hind leg, but the gryphon refused to let go, and countered by lashing out with his hind talons. Rigan heard a yelp as the other Changewolf retreated, but Torren was concentrating fully on the prey in his grip. He bit down harder, harder, until he felt the telltale relaxation of the body under him, signaling death.

Torren slowly unclamped his beak and rose cautiously, wary of further attacks. When none came, he turned to assist the Herald.

And met two sets of eyes; one assessing, the other curious. Both held gratitude. The Herald had dismounted and was now wiping his blade with a white handkerchief. The Companion nosed frantically at the man's hair, as if trying to assure herself that he was still in one piece.

"They're all gone," the Herald called out. He nodded past Torren. "Ran off when you took care of the last one."

_Phew_, Rigan thought.

"Thank you _very_ much," the Herald continued. He gave a rueful half-grin. "I really don't know what we would have done if you hadn't arrived. I'm _all right_, Kismat! I'm in one piece; no need to worry!" This said to his Companion, who continued to fret over her Herald. He scratched behind her ears. "I'm fine, thanks to our friend here." He looked at Torren expectantly.

The gryphon said nothing out loud, but remained frozen where he was. Rigan understood his nervousness, but was frustrated at his partner's complete loss of words.

_:Say something: _he hissed. _:They're going to suspect something if we just stand here like a lump.:_ Indeed, Kismat had left off her worried ministrations, and joined her Herald to stare oddly at them. Rigan could practically see a Dhorisha tumbleweed drift by in the awkward silence.

The Herald shifted his feet and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Well, thank you again for your most timely intervention. You probably wish to know who it is you've helped, no doubt." He laughed somewhat self-consciously. "My name is Rasul, and this is my Companion, Kismat." He paused. "Anyhow, I know you're probably wondering just what Kismat and I were doing through this area without any escort. I'd heard some Changewolf packs had migrated east from the Pelagirs, though I hadn't had the privilege until now of running into them. But, you see, Kismat and I, we were riding Circuit and had stopped at Forst Reach overnight. We were enjoying a little impromptu feast that Lord Ashkevron—they're very strange, the Ashkevron clan, have you ever met one of them? But that's all right, they do produce the occasional Bard or Herald, not to mention Herald Vanyel, of course, so they can't be all that—"

_Dear gods,_ Rigan thought. _Doesn't this man ever shut up?_

"But anyhow," the Herald was saying. "I was discussing an estate tax law with the Lord, when I received a rather frantic message from the Heraldic Circle. Not literally, of course, but through Mindspeech, and it had to do with one of the higher lords on his deathbed and the only male heir long disappeared, but it turns out that he has a sister whose whereabouts just became known and I have to get the message to h—"

Fortunately, Torren seemed to finally shake himself out of his frozen state. Mantling his wings, the gryphon stepped forward.

"No thanksss arrre necesarrry, rrreally," he managed to get in edgewise through the Herald's soliloquy. "We—errr, _I_, I mean—wasss jussst passsing by when I sssaw you needed asssissstancsse."

"And thank the Lady you did!" the Herald responded cheerfully. "Too bad for me my Gifts aren't the offensive kind; Firestarting would have come in useful, that's for certain. Nothing but Mindspeech and a touch of Healing for me, though. So," he continued with an abrupt change in subject. "Where are you from; where're you headed?"

_:Son of a bi—:_ Rigan began to curse, but fortunately by now Torren's wits had fully recovered.

"I am on my way to Dhorisha Plainsss, to the Kaled'a'in sssettlement therrre," the gryphon said quickly. "I am orrriginally from White Grrryphon, but have ssspent the lassst severrral yearrrs amongssst the Valesss and villagesss herrre, ssstudying local legendsss."

Well, as far as Rigan knew, that last part was true enough. And fortunately, the Herald seemed to buy into it. _And so long as Lady Kismat does too, I'm fine with that. No Herald or Mage can do anything for us, and I'd rather not be dragged off to the capitol to spend my life as a magical curiosity, thank you very much!_

"You study legends, myths, that sort of thing?" the Herald asked curiously. "Are you some sort of Bard, then?"

"Morrre of a scholarrr than a Barrrd, rrreally," Torren replied with some warmth. "I like to find the orrrigins _behind_ the legendsss. Actually, I study culturrres morrre than anything. It wasss—_isss_—my ambition to ssstudy and wrrrite booksss, guidesss, on other peoplesss."

_Oh, really?_ That was a new revelation for Rigan, and he mentally filed it away for future reference. Or at least to tease Torren about it over the next several weeks or so.

Now, the Herald looked somewhat impressed. "Really? There is the occasional text written on neighboring kingdoms, but nothing scholarly on new folks, like Iftel or those barbarian tribes up north." He propped his back up against Kismat and pursed his lips. "Those would be particularly useful, especially for trainees at the Collegium."

"Errr," The gryphon said hesitantly. "My parrrentsss did not sssee quite the potential asss do you. They dealt prrrimarrrily with Kaled'a'in and the Haighlei Empirrre, who werrre familiarrr to them. And they wanted me to become a Ssssilver Grrryphon, like themssselvesss."

The Herald chuckled. "If lack of appreciation ever inhibits your ambitions, you should come visit us in Haven. With the Alliance, anyone with that kind of scholarly interest is definitely welcome; I can't tell you how many times folks have come close to declaring a Shin'a'in-style bloodfeud based on simple misunderstanding alone! And you would be at home there, too," he enthused. "I've had the pleasure of meeting with several gryphons; ambassadors and teachers at the Mage's Collegium. I've met with Lady Hydona, as well as the Iftel delegation," he continued on blithely, unaware of Torren's growing discomfort at the mention of other gryphons.

"Errrm, Herrald Rrrasssul?" the gryphon cut in. The Herald stopped abruptly and gave Torren an inquiring look. "I rrreally mussst be going now. It being a long dissstance to the Plainsss, and summerrr heat coming on quickly, you underrrsstand." And with that, Torren gifted the Herald with a brief nod and turned to make a running take-off up the path, leaving both the Herald and his Companion to stare perplexedly after him.

"Well, _that's_ rude," Herald Rasul said to his Companion. "I did try to thank him, you know. He didn't even tell me his name!"

And it was too bad Rigan wasn't there to hear Kismat's acidic reply, because—

_:I, for one, think it's no wonder he took off. Don't you ever shut up:_

o.o.o.o.o

_:Well, that was just about the most awkward moment of _my_ life: _Rigan sent. _:Any longer, and I think he would have asked for your testimonials:_

"I beg yourrr parrrdon," the gryphon said stiffly. "He exprrresssed interrressst in my worrrrk." He made slight change in his trajectory as he spoke, sending their current path curving westward back to the Lake.

Rigan was suddenly aware of having committed an unforgivable blunder _:I didn't know you were so passionate about it. I'm…sorry.: _He gave a mental sigh. _:I've been so consumed with my duties at the inn, I haven't given any thought to how you might feel, cooped up inside all the time.:_ A sense of profound guilt struck him. _:And that's the way it's going to be for some time, too, you dormant all the time. Maybe this was all a bad idea, maybe we should just forget it and move on like always. We'd split time evenly again, it's only fair--:_

Torren seemed to freeze in midair, losing several feet altitude before finding the wind current again. _:Don't you even think about it, Rrrigan: _he sent with a mental hiss. _:I won't have you—usss—ssstuck in that kind of life anymorrre, do you hearrr me:_ Rigan, shocked again by his partner's sudden vehemence, could only send a docile affirmation. Torren sighed aloud.

"I am sssorrry indeed for sssnapping at you earrrlierrr," he spoke. "But—it isss imporrrtant to me that we have a place, a purrrose to live forrr frrrom now on. It trrruly _wouldn't_ be fairrr to go on asss we werrre. And I—I will cope." And he firmly refused to speak any more on the matter for the rest of the flight.

o.o.o.o.o

As they walked through the inn's door, Rigan took one look at their latest guest and decided right then and there that Lady Fate had it in for him.

"Innkeeper!" Herald Rasul said cheerfully, striding forward to clasp Rigan's hand. "I'm so happy that you're here! Your hirelings said that you could be gone for a candlemark more."

_:Dear gods: _Rigan complained. _:Why me:_

_:Why _usss_, you mean: _Torren corrected.

_:Why_ him_, actually.: _he countered in turn, and turned to the Herald with a plastered-on smile.

"Good day, Herald—um," he said as though he had never met the man before in his life.

"Rasul," the other supplied. "I'm passing on through here as a courier. I was planning to make the next Waystation, but my Companion and I were attacked by Changebeasts on the way over. I want to warn the mayor about their presence, so he can get the word out to the surrounding villages."

Rigan arranged his features into an appropriate expression of mingled horror and concern. "But you are all right, sir? Should I send for a Healer, perhaps?" He ignored the twinge coming from his own leg where the 'wolf had bitten Torren; fortunately only liniment had been necessary.

The Herald waved away his concerns cheerfully. "No, no. A gryphon passing through—or above, I should say—dived into the fray and chased the mangy creatures off. Quite heroic, really. A brave soul, and quite magnificent too."

Rigan could feel Torren radiating smugness.

"But he never did give me his name." Rasul frowned. "Quite rude, actually."

It was Rigan's turn to mentally smirk at Torren's discomfiture.

"Anyhow," the Herald was saying. "I was hoping that I could stay here for the night, and I must say that I am _very_ pleased with my personal lodgings…"

"But?" Rigan filled in.

"But the accommodations for Kismat, my Companion, do provide something of a concern. You see, I can't quite convince your stable boys that she isn't a horse…"

"I'll take care of it right away," Rigan promised. The Herald flashed him a blinding grin.

"I would appreciate that very much. Thank you, innkeeper."

"It is no problem, Herald Rasul," said Rigan as he turned to go outside to the stables. "And please, call me Torrigan."

o.o.o.o.o

That afternoon, 'Torrigan' was lecturing the head groom on the proper care and feeding of Companions, when Paki came in at a run.

"Torrigan!" he gasped. "Come quick!"

Rigan, the head groom, and Kismat all whipped their heads around at the boy's entrance.

"What is it, Paki?" Rigan asked.

Paki just shook his head, trying to regain his breath. He motioned frantically for Rigan to come with him.

"Excuse me, Eachan; Lady Kismat," Rigan said to his fascinated audience. Bemused, he followed Paki out of the stable, into the inn, and up the stairs to the third floor hallway. Paki gestured for him to stop at the door of one of the more expensive suites.

"Isn't Sir Bolan staying here for the fortnight with his wife, the Lady Yusra?" Rigan queried. Paki nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by loud skidding noises, the sound of a crash, followed promptly by a sharp yelp. "What the—?"

Several curses emerged from the suite, followed almost immediately by Sir Bolan himself, Lady Yusra in tow. The portly, middle-aged knight appeared out of breath, and with his free hand he was carefully probing a rapidly-forming bruise on his forehead. Lady Yusra seemed to be desperately holding back a snicker.

"Sir Bolan?" Rigan asked tentatively. "Is there a problem?"

"There most certainly _is_," the other man bit out. "I have never seen such poor housekeeping in all my life. I would cast my servant out to the street for such a thing! Come, dear," he tugged at his wife who was rapidly losing the battle against her own amusement. "We're leaving. Now. Once it's safe, my valet and your maid can gather our luggage together."

_Once it's safe?_ "Sir Bolan!" Rigan called out after him. "What exactly _is_ the problem?" But the knight was already thumping down the stairs, his wife's peals of laughter echoing in the hallway.

Rigan sighed. "Well, I suppose I'll have to take a look at the mess. Whoever's responsible will either have to make up for it or find another job, depending on how bad it is." He stepped into the room, failing to see the desperate shaking of Paki's head. "_Don't go in there!_" the teenager managed at last, but it was too late.

"Hmm," Rigan said as he stepped into the tastefully appointed salon. "It looks clean so far. I wonder what the problem could be-_eeeeeeaughhhhhhhhhh_!" he yelped as he slipped and slid across the wooden floor.

_Crash!_

A heavy table stopped his flight across the room, and Rigan immediately felt a bruise form all the way down his thigh. Right above the Changewolf bite.

_:Ouch. How painful. I hope that doesn't affect my body when I take over: _Torren commented, but not without sympathy.

"Shut up, featherball," Rigan muttered.

"Torrigan?" Paki had poked his head around the doorframe and was now looking at Rigan a bit strangely.

"Never mind." Rigan shook his head and wincingly got to his feet. "What exactly happened here?"

"Ramla," the teenager said between clenched teeth.

"Ramla—? Oh." Rigan could feel his muscles tense with Torren's concern combined with his own rising anger. "Paki, would you please bring your sister up here? And get the housekeeper, too." Paki nodded, looking both nervous but relieved. _Of course. He can't handle her, Jaron went back to Haven a fortnight ago, so it's up to me as the new 'head of the household.' Dammit. _With great caution, Rigan slowly made his way back across the room to the hallway.

As he leaned against the doorjamb, he could hear loud protests from the stairwell. Ramla's small form appeared first in the hallway entrance, followed shortly by Paki, pushing the girl in front of him. Ramla grudgingly allowed herself to be prodded along the hallway until the pair reached Rigan. One there, Ramla planted her feet firmly apart on the floor, and scowled up at Rigan. Rigan bent down on one knee in front of her and tried not to wince.

"Ramla," Rigan began.

"Torr'gan," Ramla responded. She bit at her lip, but continued scowling. It wasn't a very attractive expression on her small face.

"Ramla, did you wax the floors up here today?"

Ramla said nothing. "Yes, she did," Paki answered for her. "She's supposed to help the upstairs maids before leaving for the Temple school, and then help in the kitchen when she gets back."

"Not as a server, I hope!" Rigan exclaimed in horror.

"No, not since it turned out she _was_ spilling on people on purpose. I would've thought you learned from that drunken lout," Paki frowned at his sister. "Why are you _doing_ this, Ramla? We need your help to make this place like it was before Mother and 'Da left, don't you understand?" he pleaded

Ramla only scrunched up her face even further, and then lapsed into a deliberate expressionlessness.

"Fine," Rigan sighed. "I don't know why you're trying to make your brother's work even harder, not to mention mine. But I can't let you continue this without consequences." He saw the inn housekeeper scurry toward them, and he straightened up.

"Ah, good. Amala," he gestured for the housekeeper to come closer. "I need to speak with you. First off, Ramla is to no longer help wax the floors."

"So I heard," the housekeeper muttered. She glared at the culprit. "You're lucky you're family, child. Torrigan and I would have turned you out several times over by now, otherwise."

"Which brings us to her punishment," Rigan continued. "Amala, do you have any suggestions?"

Ramla looked surprised and turned to her brother. Paki only nodded at Rigan, deliberately ignoring his sister.

_:Even the most indulgent of siblings can only take so much. And she's not making it easy for her brother to take care of her:_

"Scrubbing out the pots is a good start," Amala said finally. "And I have some of the more difficult tasks the maids wouldn't miss having someone take over for a while."

Rigan smiled. "Then I leave her in your capable hands, Amala. And when Ramla is not at the Temple or practicing her lessons, I expect that most of her otherwise free time could be put to more productive use for, say, the next fortnight? And," he gave Ramla a hard look. "If you cause any more trouble for the guests or Amala, I will be happy to extend your punishment further. Do you understand?" Ramla looked unhappy, but she nodded.

"She got off easy," Paki muttered under his breath.

_: Yesss; big brrrotherrr hasss finally exhausssted the lassst of hisss endlesss sssupply of patienssce.:_ That was Torren. _:But why ssshe ssshould behave thisss way, worrrking to make our efforrrtsss to help thisss inn ssso difficult, isss harrrd to underrrssstand.:_

_:A brat is a brat, is all.:_ Rigan replied. _:Gods, I hate dealing with children.:_

o.o.o.o.o

The next morning, Rigan woke feeling refreshed and ready to get an immediate start on his early rounds. On his way through the kitchen, he grabbed a plate of yesterday's bread and went into the main room for a quick bite before heading out to the stables.

"Torrigan!" he heard the now annoyingly familiar voice behind him.

With a heavy sigh, Rigan turned around and dredged up a convincing smile of welcome. "Herald Rasul," he said with forced cheer. "How are you this morning?"

"Fine, fine. Kismat and I are leaving for Highglade early this morning."

"Oh. I'm glad—_sad_, sad, I mean!—to hear that."

The Herald nodded and spent the next several minutes nattering on about how disappointed he was that he couldn't spend at least another few days exploring Westridge—"Quite a lovely and bustling town, it is"—and making much of the mayor as a man of action—"he's sending news of the Changewolves to all the nearby villages straightaway, though we'll be taking a roundabout path to Highglade to spread word about the Changebeasts to the villages along the way" Then he paused for all of an entire breath before adding, "Too bad about that gryphon."

"Huh?" Rigan was startled into paying attention.

"He mentioned how interested he was in local legends, that sort of thing. And right after he left, I suddenly remembered a new one that's popped up a bit north of here."

"Hmm?"

"Yes, there've been rumors going around about some sort of man-beast. Seems that over the past few years, some villagers claimed to have witnessed a young man who, when enraged, turns into a vicious monster."

"You don't say," Rigan said weakly.

"Well, _I_ don't, but these people do. Fascinating, really, but most other people don't give it much credence."

"It's probably just too much ale, I'd think. You know how it is when you're in a secluded village…"

"But it would be exciting if it were true, wouldn't it? You never know, especially with the Mage Storms having created all those Changebeasts, so maybe it hit a human before the Shield Wall and Counter-Storm went up? Fascinating…"

"Yes, it would be, wouldn't it?" Rigan said quickly. "Personally, though, I'm not much of one for wild tales. And I really must go attend to some business, so if you'll excuse me?"

Herald Rasul colored slightly. "Of course, of course. You must have a great deal of work to attend to and I'll leave you to it. I do want to say that I was thoroughly pleased with my accommodations, as was Kismat. I'm leaving shortly, and I wanted to thank you for speaking with your stable boys in case I missed you later."

"No trouble at all," Rigan called out, already heading out the door. The Herald couldn't leave Westridge fast enough, as far as he was concerned.

o.o.o.o.o

Rigan patted the mare's flank and left her to her usual patch of sweetgrass. He started across the clearing.

"Thank goodness that Herald is leaving today," he said out loud. "And I pity the next person who has to deal with him."

_:Underrrssstandable.:_ Torren replied. _:He did tend to go on a bit, didn't he:_

"A bit! Why, I'm surprised he even paused to breathe. For a Herald, he should know when to keep quiet and just _listen_ for once."

:_True: _the gryphon replied with good humor. _:Arrre you ssstill up forrr flying:_

Rigan snorted. "Huh. _You're_ the one who does all the work for flying; I'm just a passenger. You know," he said, continuing to the other side of the clearing. "Someday, I'd like to truly feel what it's like to fly like you do, the wind against my wings and everything. Not to mention your bravery in battle, and how you manage to handle people like Rasul and Ramla. I was so annoyed with her yesterday; I'm glad I had your calming influence. Battle rage excluded, of course."

_:And someday I'd like to have your certainty in my ambitions.:_ the gryphon replied. His mindvoice turned thoughtful. _:But I suppose we complement each other, don't we:_

"Hmm." Rigan stopped at a patch of wildflowers and let Torren take over.

_:Well, I suppose so. After all, if one of us were like Rasul, the other one would've killed the both of us within a se'nnight of meeting in that Changecircle.:_

_We get along pretty well, don't we._

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.

A/N: For those who are curious, Mercedes Lackey did write a short story involving a Herald and the mindspeaking creatures that dwell in Lake Evendim. I found a link to the story online: type in "Out of the Deep a Valdemar story" into google. This is going to be worked into chapter 10, FYI.

And no, I'm not dead. I apologize _profusely_ for the ridiculous delay, which has been due to three factors: procrastination, lack of a set schedule, and the next three chapters. I work three chapters ahead, and just so you know, chapters 8 and 9 are MUCH longer than the previous chapters, and chapter 10 is almost a novella in itself with lots of exciting action and adventure (I'm actually pretty proud of it!). I want to get started on chapter 11 ASAP, though I have a few things to work out with the Akakios character first (the guy has serious issues; heck, at this point he has a frickin' _subscription_). As always, your reviews help inspire me to get this show on the road!

BTW, does not seem to allow me to use question-marks with the colons. (No : when people are thinking questions at each other). So it's the site and not bad grammar on my part. Just imagine they're there. :P

UrsaWolf


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